Harry Potter and the Secret of Durmstrang
by nick smith 450
Summary: AU. Deep inside Durmstrang, an object of great power is hidden, an object one Igor Karkaroff strives to acquire. Easy task, right? Well, not when there's the mysterious reappearance of Harry Potter at your school, an overly interested Albus Dumbledore, a possibly deadly threat and the disapproval of your own staff you also have to deal with.
1. An Unexpected Student

**DISCLAIMER: I am the owner of the Harry Potter books. Sadly, I don't own the rights.**

 **AN:** This story will largely be from Harry's point of view, even though there will be other's POVs in most chapters. It's set three years after - but you're about to find that out, aren't you? We'll get to the Secret of Durmstrang in no time, but there are a few other plot points on the way before...

* * *

 **HARRY POTTER AND THE SECRET OF DURMSTRANG**

 _Chapter One: An Unexpected Student_

* * *

"Mr. Potter," Igor Karkaroff drawled, his voice devoid of any emotion and his silver eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. A slight German influence could be heard in his pronunciation, but it was barely noticeable. "I must admit … a thoroughly surprising sight."

Harry didn't yet know what to think of the man - after all, he had just arrived on this wooden platform which appeared to be located somewhere on the ocean. Apart from them, there was nothing but crushing waves of deep, blue water to be heard here. Harry wasn't quite sure if he really wanted to be here. From what little he had gathered until now, Karkaroff didn't seem like a particularly joyous person.

"Don't you have anything to say to that? ", Karkaroff asked deliberately slowly and smiled at him – a sight so repealing that it at least partially explained why studying magic below the age of eleven was forbidden.

Harry was pretty certain what exactly the man wanted to know. At least he didn't beat around the bush. "At Britain, it's too dangerous for me. Durmstrang is the only school where most people don't know the location, so it's a bit safer."

"Curious. A school infamous for colloquial traditions that are repeatedly put into question by just about every other government is _safer_."

Oh, that was basically the best point of attack he could have hoped for. "Well, did _you_ expect me to come to Durmstrang? Also, there are no public lists of the students here, so ... at least for a bit of time, no one will notice."

Karkaroff nodded and righted himself; some of his vertical wrinkles disappearing. Harry allowed himself a slight twitch of the corner of his mouth, even though he had been told to remain expressionless during inevitable conversations like this. It worked!

"I think I should tell you that I heavily disapprove of lies, Mr. Potter, especially of impertinently obvious ones like this."

Oh, shit. "That was no lie! ", Harry almost shouted. "Do you ... do you really think your own school isn't safe enough for me?"

"You should maybe think about a bit of practice in the art of lying. Having panic attacks because someone calls you a liar is _no_ convincing way to sell a story." The headmaster of Durmstrang smiled again and, unconsciously, Harry took a step back. No, it hadn't worked. Not at all. "Be that as it may, at this point I'd advise you to simply _stop_ this pathetic attempt at deception."

Harry licked his lips and took another step backwards. He just hoped there was enough platform left for him not to take a little bath when, inevitably, Karkaroff put that horrible abomination of a smile on his face again.

"I want to learn Dark Magic", he finally acknowledged, "and Durmstrang's the only place."

"Why?"

"Because I ... I grew up with Muggles." Yeah, great way to sound like an imbecile; even Harry inwardly cringed when he heard what he'd blurted out.

Karkaroff narrowed his eyes and showed his teeth (but, luckily, without smiling, which seemed, to Harry at least, by far not as intimidating). "Sir!" It seemed like an order.

"Err ... what?"

"In the future, you are to address me as "Sir" whenever you speak to me. Seeing as you repeatedly failed to do so, I thought it prudent to remind you of that. Case in point, the question isn't 'what', it is "Sorry, I am not able to understand you, could you please phrase it so that even I get what you are trying to convey, _Sir"._ "

Harry had stopped to listen immediately after Karkaroff had said the word "future" and a big, broad smile appeared on his face. It had been successful; he would be going to Durmstrang! No boring sitting-around at his old home anymore, and finally, _finally_ the chance to learn some actual magic! Yes, the headmaster seemed unpleasant and yes, he still didn't know what to expect, but none of these actually mattered, because he had managed – on his own! – to remove the biggest obstacle on his way to Durmstrang! If that was nothing to be proud of, he didn't know what was. Now, the restlessness he had felt for the last weeks was surely going to vanish.

"Let me give you a fair warning, Mr. Potter. I am not satisfied _in the least_ by your explanation and I _will_ find out what's really behind your quaint appearance here. That said, you managed to ... sufficiently reassure certain concerns of mine, which means that you can follow me into the _Exiter_ , as it is usually called." Noticing Harry's questioning look, Karkaroff of course refrained from elaborating this "Exiter" thingy any further.

Karkaroff was definitely one of these "natural git" personas, Harry decided.

The "Exiter" turned out to be the building that had been standing behind them. When Harry arrived at the platform, he had wondered about its purpose because it looked like a regular old shack, covered with some sad leftovers of the green colour it appeared to have painted with once.

The inner looks even complimented the outer appearance, because it was nothing more than an empty, barren room.

The translators he had been promised in the letter turned out to be nothing short of ridiculous. Yes, they worked quite well and everything Karkaroff said in German was translated perfectly and without delay. However, that was _not the point._ They looked like something taken out of a joke shop.

Harry knew the hearing devices of old people; they also tended to lack subtlety. Still, had he been given a choice, he would have preferred wearing ten of those _at the same time_ to this. The translators turned out to be two pyramid-formed green-yellow conglomerations of ugliness he had to fit over both his ears. And not small pyramids at that! They were at least as big as his hands, if not a big longer!

"Is that really the only way you can make a translator look?"

Karkaroff threw a stern look at him and shook his head in a way that perfectly conveyed "hopeless idiot" without needing any words.

"Sir," Harry gritted out between his teeth.

The headmaster smiled condescendingly, even his goatee wiggling with scorn. "No, certainly not. But it seems to be the best way to motivate everyone to take language lessons. Or to make one for themselves."

Harry snorted, albeit so silently that Karkaroff didn't hear it. "If you have any questions left", the headmaster continued dismissively, "I'd advise waiting until the feast ends, because I will most likely answer them there."

Then, he took a step forward, so overtly attentive to his feet that Harry immediately knew something was going to happen.

"Durmstrang!" Karkaroff exclaimed.

* * *

Of course he had no way of knowing what Durmstrang looked like on the outside, but on the inside ... well, it wasn't what Harry'd imagined. The corridors were uncomfortably small, partially claustrophobic even, especially because there was no visible source that provided any light. It was no black night, but the general mood resembled a rainy November morning, just that it seemed dusty instead of foggy - although actual dust was nowhere to be found. The castle appeared in unyielding, never-ending grey tones, not even notably interrupted by the few paintings and the statues that could be found here and there. Mostly, that could be contributed to the stones it had been built of, but Harry thought he found the (somewhat rare) windows worse. They were thick and milky and any light that might be shining on the outside was hold up by the impenetrable obstacle they provided.

Durmstrang was definitely purpose-built, and hadn't been planned out by someone who had particularly enjoyed that task. _What a fitting school for a person like Karkaroff_ , thought Harry darkly. This cozy atmosphere had to be right about the most motivating thing ever when it came to learning.

However, Karkaroff's conduct probably wasn't innocent when it came to the negativity of his thoughts; his meeting with the man certainly hadn't raised any anticipation.

But Harry resolved to try and be a bit more well-spirited about his arrival. Hadn't he always wanted to leave the boring, solemn house in Little Hangleton? Granted, Durmstrang didn't look friendlier, but he'd only seen a few corridors as of now.

His decision to be less judgemental turned out to be right when they reached a big room, having avoided speaking to each other the whole way. Loud, joyous chatter reached his ears even before the door opened, and immediately, the school felt a little less depressing, a little less dusty. And inside the room ... well, Harry felt as though he had entered a completely different building.

Impressive amounts of bright torches and candles were flying through the air, slowly moving up and down, shining upon everything that happened below them with a warm, comfortable light and providing a very notable contrast to the rest of the castle.

And there were people. More people than Harry had ever seen coming together in one room, and his curiosity and eagerness to see something different, something new, far outshined his nervousness at the moment. Harry smiled as he eyed the seven tables that were standing in front of him, from left to right containing gradually older students.

Another, much nicer table that was slightly curved was placed at the other end of the hall. Even from this place – approximately 30 meters away from it – Harry could make out some nicely carved ornaments, even if he didn't know their purpose. Most likely, they were only there to be nice to look at, because apart from symmetry, no concrete image – not even a clear pattern – was recognizable.

The students' tables were made of the same beige wood, but they had no ornaments, and they seemed to be a little less impressive in height.

What stood out, however, was the giant banner that floated close to the roof, well above even the torches. It almost seemed as if it was glued to the ceiling, but the soft fluttering indicated that this wasn't the case. To Harry's surprise, the banner seemed to be glowing a little, mixing the warm colours of the torches with a touch of green. Painted on it was the emblem of Durmstrang, a double-headed eagle over the red skull of a deer with impressively long horns between which a golden banner had been spanned. Harry, sadly, was unable to read what was written on it.

When Harry eventually stopped looking at it, he noticed that the atmosphere in the hall had become subdued, and it took no genius to find out what reason there might be for this development.

"I _humbly_ apologize," Karkaroff began without raising his voice, "for my tardiness, however, Mr. Harry Potter over here..." Of course he had to point towards Harry, so that everyone was bound to look at him. The reactions were completely different; where some students appeared completely blasé, others immediately began to converse in hushed, hectic tones. Still, there wasn't one _not_ staring. Harry instinctively crossed his arms and looked longingly towards the table of the first years, and it at least seemed like Karkaroff wanted to avoid unnecessarily dragging out this fest, because he grabbed Harry's arm and shoved him towards the left side of the hall.

Harry gladly left the center of attention and approached what would be his future classmates. Most of them seemed to suffer from a temporary stupor, but Harry was sure that this would change soon enough. At least, he spotted at least ten people who also wore pyramids, albeit less ridiculously coloured.

"... insisted on a bit of special treatment," finished Karkaroff. Then, he marched towards the other end of the hall, through the rising background noise, turned around and ... looked.

The excitement died down in an astonishing speed.

"Welcome, everyone, old and new, at Durmstrang!" the headmaster said without changing his seven-rainy-days-expression in the slightest. "I have a few announcements to make that might seem repetitive to those who aren't new to the school. If you think that to be a sufficient excuse to talk to each other as you please, you will find that every food you take will miraculously vanish."

Everything was dead silent, and Harry couldn't help but feeling a bit more intimidated by Karkaroff than he normally would. If he could exercise that kind of control over a whole school, how awful did they think him to be?

"Not much is known about Durmstrang – which I consider a success - so let me give you a superficial overview. First things first, Durmstrang has a long tradition as a school that stands united, which means that the house system that you might have heard other schools have does not exist here. You are separated by your respective school years. Each year has its own sleeping facilities, although you will have to be patient when it comes to separate rooms. We are working on a renovation of the original dormitories, but the castle's protections and especially its inconvenient location are continuing to make things difficult."

Harry didn't know what Karkaroff meant when he talked about an "inconvenient location", but as no one else looked confused, he preferred not to ask and possibly look like an idiot. When Harry glanced at the other tables, he noticed that most of the students seemed quite upset by that news, although there still still no sound.

Karkaroff had apparently noticed as well. "If anyone feels that to be unacceptable, he can of course come to my bureau and have a nice little _discussion_ about that matter. But I wouldn't recommend this particular someone to empty his trunk, as that may turn out to be a waste of time," he continued.

For the first time since he had entered the hall, Harry consciously noticed the other teachers – to be more precise, one of them, a very rough looking man, head completely bald, who had taken to roll his eyes every two or three of Karkaroff's sentences. Involuntarily, Harry smiled; it seemed that at least some teachers didn't strictly adore the headmaster as well.

Karkaroff abruptly raised his voice so that the following came out like a striking lightning, "What _no one_ of you will do under _any circumstances_ is using our Exiter without asking a teacher first! This particular asset of our school can be a bit ... moody – and I _get_ moody if any self-proclaimed geniuses here have to be saved out of an arctic desert because of their irredeemable stupidity. Did I express myself sufficiently clear for the message to get through everyone's thick skull?"

He looked around, but no one dared to say anything.

The ending of the headmaster's speech turned out to be a bit anticlimactic. "Eat!" Karkaroff bellowed.

Personally, Harry thought that this introduction was a bit lacking, especially because he still had no idea where he even was in the castle.

Harry also had, ridiculously, gotten his hopes up to have a nice, quiet meal and be able to adjust a bit to his new surroundings. As it turned out, the kids around him had already applied unbelievable amounts of willpower to keep quiet while Karkaroff was giving out his uninteresting pieces of information and, at the same time, _Harry Potter_ had joined their table – and this willpower didn't slowly crumble after Karkaroff had stopped talking, no, it completely broke down and gave way to tremendous amounts of opinions, questions, prejudices and advices Harry had to listen to that mashed up more and more and led to Harry learning his very first important lesson of social life:

If someone talks to you and you are neither interested in what he says, nor do you have the slightest idea what he tries to convey, just nod. Nod and smile and, from time to time, actually listen to a question and begin to answer that, before the next guy needs to get rid of some words. Then, nod again.

Harry tried to at least memorize the names of those that were a little less vocal and less prone to impose their person upon himself, because he was fairly sure that these were the fellow students he would be getting along with best.

Suffice to say, he was glad when, after an exasperating hour or so (even though the others had gotten less inquisitive at the end), a tall, thin teacher approached the table of the first years. He was pale and his face showed only a few wrinkles, but his hair seemed to have already greyed out and was considerably lightened. There was nothing really noticeable about him, maybe apart from his somewhat strained expression.

"I am Professor Dmitrijew," the man said, "and I will be responsible for you this year." The children in front of him didn't really notice his presence until after the first part of the sentence, and they only slowly came to the conclusion that it might be better to stop talking.

The man rolled his eyes as though he was already drained of any energy he might have possessed before. "Professor Dmitrijew," he repeated to answer the unasked question and lowered his head. "I will be teaching potions, but we will come to that tomorrow. For now, please stand up and follow me, because I have to show you your dormitories."

Harry just hoped that the man would be a bit more enthusiastic in class, because he seemed to be a bit... well, corpse-y.

The first years did as they were told and for the second time this day Harry found himself wandering through the claustrophobic corridors of his new school, just that they seemed even a bit more uncomfortable when you were with thirty or forty other students.

Professor Dmitrijew didn't say much to the school itself, but he made sure that everyone got a piece of parchment that seemed to be - luckily! – a map of Durmstrang, and Harry vowed to occupy himself a bit with it, as it didn't seem like it was easily understood. From what he gathered, Durmstrang had four corridors totally, but that was all he was able to grasp until they suddenly came to a halt in front of a wall whose shade of grey was a bit darker than usual. It was a surprisingly disversified hallway, what with _two_ paintings hanging on its walls, depicting a strange magical creature and what apparently was a former headmaster of Durmstrang.

"Here we are," Dmitrijew announced. "I hope that every single one of you has memorized the way, but of course, no one can expect that from today's students, so I gave you that map. In my days ... ah, well. If you want to open the wall, just step in front of it, hold your wand up and write the number of weeks you're already here into the air. So, today you would have to write a "zero"."

The teacher looked around with raised eyebrows. "I hope that's understandable. Of course, in my days, everyone would have known what to do, but today-" He sighed deeply.

When Harry looked around, he came to the conclusions that most students didn't really know what to make of this teacher, exactly like himself. He didn't seem to be unfriendly, but ... a very firm believer in the diffuse world of sentimentality, to say the least. And a bit burned out. After not even a few hours of the new term, which was slightly worrying.

"What our honourable headmaster forgot to mention – avoid in den Korridoren zu zaubern, weil es vermutlich-"

Harry's head shot upwards. What? What was that?! Why didn't he understand what the teacher said? Somehow, the translational effect of his two portable fashion crimes had to have failed. With a hectic shake of his head, he tried to get his pyramids to work again, but it was useless. Then - employing dear old Uncle Vernon's favourite strategy when it came to technical toys that just wouldn't do their job – he desperately hit the device.

Whatever had been wrong, his strategy worked, Dmitrijew resumed talking in flawless English. Except that he had missed what might have been a vital part of his elaborations.

"You are probably impatient to finally get your wand. If you honestly think that possessing a wand makes you a proper wizard, I expect that you will fail miserably at my own subject, but that's a discussion for another day. Well, inside your dorm you will find Mr. Gregorovitch waiting for you. Please refrain from harassing the man too much, as we want him to keep supplying each of our students with a wand of highest standards, and he theoretically already retired one or two years ago." The man sighed again. "I just hope that I'm not expecting too much. You never know with today's students."

And with a last sad headshake, he left the first years to themselves. No one really paid his departure any attention for obvious reasons, and Harry joined them in their excitement. After all, they'd be getting wands! And what wizard wouldn't immediately be attracted when it came to wands?

* * *

Having one's last name begin with the 16th letter of the alphabet royally sucked. Gregorovitch was inside what seemed to be the common room and had immediately sent out all of the students – except a very lucky guy named Harald Armin, who was the first one to become an actual wizard. Therefore, Harry was doomed to wait for his wand for at least two or three hours. Worse, there wasn't much you were able to do in the dormitory, because it really wasn't more than only one big room for every male student of the first year - which meant that about eighteen people had to sleep together and that the only thing resembling a private space was the wardrobe directly next to each guy's bed. No wonder everyone had glared at Karkaroff when he had mentioned that particular fact.

If Harry took into account what little he knew about purebloods, he was very surprised that they would find such an environment acceptable.

"Gotta admit, I really didn't expect this," the guy next to him said over the excited chit-chat of everyone else – and Harry definitely felt like he was talking to him. After the dinner, no one had spoken to Harry again, so this was a bit surprising, especially as it came from one of the boys that had remained rather quiet when Karkaroff's speech had ended. He was a bit pale, even though he seemed to be of Mediterranean origin, judging by his dark hair and his dominant eyebrows. The most notable feature about him, however, was his nose, which was almost as pointy as some of the hats the professors had been wearing.

"I mean, I don't know about you," the boy continued, "but I just thought it would be a bit more ... comfortable. Especially after how it looked on the outside."

"Yeah," Harry agreed despite having no idea about the castle's outer looks. "I mean ... yeah," he finished slowly and felt quite dumb for not being able to get a proper sentence together, but the other one didn't seem to mind; he just readjusted his own pyramids a bit. Maybe he thought he'd missed something.

"You weren't on the ship with the rest of us," the Mediterranean guy added. "Did you experience Professor Rottweil already?"

So the others had been brought here with a ship? That was interesting, and it explained why the platform Harry had found himself on was even there. The castle had to be close to some coast for that method of transportation to make sense.

Then, Harry remembered that the other boy had asked him a question. "No, I don't think – no." Harry felt his voice waver a bit - but this was just so new. Of course, in primary school, there had been a few people who were – when they first met and before they had a "talk" with Dudley – civil to him, but that had been three years ago! And he didn't remember speaking to anyone except Voldemort and Wormtail during the time since, so there was absolutely no way for him to be accustomed to regular small talk.

"He's supposed to be the teacher for "Etiquette" or something like that, and I've never met a ruder guy in my entire life!"

"Well, I was brought here by Karkaroff," Harry replied and was glad to hear that he finally had managed a complete sentence. It wasn't nice to feel like an idiot. "He wanted to hear me out or something like that, but, seriously, I don't think you can get a worse start to this school. The whole time, I felt like he wanted me to get angry for some reason."

The other guy pondered that for a moment, then he rose from his bed and stretched out his hand. "I'm Juan Rodriguez, by the way." A look to Harry's lightning-shaped scar, then he smiled. "And you would be...?"

For a moment, Harry was lost for words, because there was no way the other boy didn't know ... -something clicked. He really wasn't serious, it was just ... a joke? Therefore, Harry didn't answer and simply grinned instead.

"Potter, Harry?!" a rough, old (but loud) voice called from below. For a few seconds, Harry just sat on his bed, motionless, but then he processed what the call meant: He'd be getting his wand!

"Sorry," he managed, then he went as quickly towards the door of the room as was possible without looking like an ecstatic seven-year-old who'd just been promised his lolly.

It was surprising how much brighter the common room seemed when you had just left a sleeping hall whose lighting barely allowed you to recognize the face of your bed neighbour.

Harry narrowed his eyes because the light hurt at first, but his pupils adjusted fast. For the first time, he had a proper look at the place where each student was sold his new wand. It was similar to many things at Durmstrang: Simple and functional and with little regard for appearance; a desk made of black coloured wood, a measuring tape resting on it and a few shelves which were inhabited by literally hundreds of small grey cardboard boxes. Most important, of course, was the man who sat behind the desk and who was apparently named "Gregorovitch".

The first thing Harry noticed when he looked at him was his obvious age. Granted, Karkaroff's hair was silver, but still, the man didn't seem like he was older than maybe 50 years. Gregorovitch, contrary to that, looked like death had already gotten a hold of him and only let him live on out of sheer benevolence. Everything about the man was _thin_ , not only his body, no, his bony fingers, his arms and even his skin as well; Harry almost thought that if he just looked at him long enough, he might be able to see the backrest of the chair behind. Additionally, the skin was heavily wrinkled and riddled with age spots, and there were only a few sad white leftovers where his hair was supposed to be.

When Gregorovitch rose up from the chair, Harry was startled for a moment, so devoid of energy, so wrung appeared the man in front of him that it seemed impossible for him to have any life left. But when he spoke, his dull brown eyes began to gleam slightly and while most parts of his body had certainly seen better days, Gregorovitch's mind was certainly as sharp as ever.

"I have to admit, I am honoured to have the opportunity to determine a wand of a celebrity like you, Mr. Potter," the man's voice maybe was a bit hoarse, but it effortlessly filled the room nonetheless. "Especially because, in this case, it is so very unexpected."

"Pleased to meet you, too, Sir," Harry replied with a somewhat strained smile.

"Well ... now, to business, as time sadly doesn't allow me to talk with each of you too much. Which one is your wand arm?"

"The right one," Harry replied and stretched out his right arm for the wand maker to measure when Gregorovitch told him to. Contrary to his previous statement, the man however seemed to believe he had quite a bit of time in store, because he simply grabbed the measuring tape and then stopped in his movements to resume talking.

"Oftentimes, my customers have pondered the reason for these seemingly superfluous measurements, because every wand maker who knows his craft will tell you what I tell you now: The wand chooses the wizard, and, to nearly all of us, it remains a mystery how this choice is made. But while we cannot pretend to know the details, there are a few tendencies here and there. For example, wands are carved out of trees, and the bigger the wand's tree was, the longer usually is the arm of the wizard it chooses. Which means," and he pulled a bit of tape out of the device and hold it next to Harry's arm, "that your wand most likely will not have belonged to a particularly large tree."

"Does that make any difference?"

Gregorovitch smiled fondly, and the perfect teeth he revealed provided an unexpected contrast to his otherwise geriatric appearance. Then again, every wizard Harry knew had perfect teeth.

" _Everything_ makes a difference, Mr. Potter. The crafting of wands is such a very delicate art, and the knowing eye for detail is what really separates an excellent wand maker from a ... less capable one. Which, pretence of modesty aside, is why the governors of Durmstrang have practically begged me to visit their school - despite my retirement."

Harry tapped the ground with his foot because, well, this might have been an interesting conversation in other circumstances, but for now he simply wanted to get his wand.

"An impatient one, aren't you?" said Gregorovitch, frowning a bit. "You should work on that, because important decisions in your live are to be thought through carefully – and this is such a decision. There is not one thing – be it a human, be it an animal – closer to a wizard than his wand." The wandmaker's eyes had widened and his gestures became gradually livelier as he continued, so that Harry almost forgot how old the man really had to be.

"A wand, I assure you, is very much like a close friend." He abruptly turned around and regarded the shelves with a fond expression. "It has its own personality, its own character, tasks it likes and tends to excel at and tasks it dislikes and tends to fail at. I would recommend you to get to know your wand a bit, because most wizards sadly don't – and believe me when I tell you that a lacking relationship to your wand is presumably the most vital step on the road to average abilities. That said, I certainly do not believe _you_ endangered by mediocrity." He looked over his shoulder, considered Harry for a moment and narrowed his eyes. Then, he turned back to the shelves and pulled out a grey box that looked like every single other box in the room – at least to Harry.

"My British colleague Ollivander likes to pride himself on never forgetting a wand he sold. I, on the other hand, am very proud to say that, during the long time I have sold wands, I have never had to second-guess myself."

Carefully, with slightly trembling fingers, he opened the box and extracted the black wand that had been resting inside.

"Hawthorn and Dragon Heartstring, twelve inches, nice and supple," he said quietly, almost whispering, and Harry took the wand as if in trance. "A very conflicting combination, and-" he caught himself and shook his head. "I think that will be for you to find out. This is your wand, Mr. Potter."

Whether it was because of the man's almost ceremonial demeanour or because of the rush that bolted through his body when he touched it; Harry felt a blissful shiver dancing over his spine. It was only enhanced when the red sparks began to fly out of his, _his_ new possession. The one item that would make him an actual wizard. His wand.

The only minor disturbance of that sacred moment was Gregorovitch's hoarse (but very loud) voice crying "Poljakow, Artjom!" directly next to his ear.

* * *

Barnabas Cuffe, Editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet, stared disbelievingly at the list in front of him. Of course, he'd hoped for something like that, but he hadn't dared to believe it would really happen.

But there it was, black on white, the list of the newest additions to the Durmstrangian student body.

He'd never been interested in these lists – except this year. No one knew where Harry Potter had spent his last ten years. It was highly improbable - but not entirely impossible - that he wouldn't enrol at Hogwarts – and that was why Barnabas Cuffe had chosen to have a look at the enrolment lists of other important magic schools.

That of Beauxbatons was public, but there was nothing sensational to be found on it. That of Hogwarts would make his office within the next hours despite not exactly being a public document, but that of Durmstrang had never been available anywhere. He didn't know who had sent it to him, but he had a strong suspicion – and, after all, it wasn't really relevant. The important information was firmly clutched between his short, thick fingers.

Cuffe smiled mischievously and rubbed his fists together. That was going to be one hell of an article and he'd be damned if tomorrow's version of the Daily Prophet wasn't this year's best selling edition.

Still smiling, he glanced at the note that had been sent with the list. _Use it well._

That he would. Oh yes, that he would.

* * *

Harry was lying in his bed, still wide awake, and listened to the snoring of his classmates. The new day had to have begun long ago, but he couldn't seem to find any rest this night. Carefully, he excluded the wand he had gotten from his bag and stroked it, sensed the little irregularities of the wood. Whatever results emerged from his stay here, he was already sure that nothing would be able to surpass the feeling of having a wand. For the first time there was a direct connection to the magical part of him, the part which, according to what he'd been told, made him special.

And still, he felt wrong. Not necessarily at the wrong place, though. It was true, Durmstrang was not a welcoming school as it was so grey and narrow and uncomfortable, at least in most areas. Thinking back on it, the dining hall with the majestic weaving flag had been impressive, but that was one room, and if everything else mainly consisted of grey, one room didn't account for much. That said, Harry wasn't quite sure when it came to Durmstrang, after all, he had only seen a fraction of the castle. And apart from that, he'd been forced to make something even remotely resembling a home out of the most impossible places throughout his life. Durmstrang was familiar in that way, especially in comparison to the cupboard, because it also was narrow and hadn't much light to offer. Now, the cupboard surely hadn't been a desirable location to sleep in, but it had been _his._ Harry was pretty sure that he could have made the castle his as well, if what bothered him really were its looks.

But there also were the stares and the whispers and the people that just wanted to see his scar. He'd been living in near solitude for _three_ years, and suddenly, he was forced towards the centre of attention, and he didn't like it one bit. Even now, when everything was quiet, he felt restless. There were _so many children_ around. But maybe he'd adjust, it was quite possible even. Until now, his life had been a constant challenge where adjustment was key to every obstacle. He thought that, given enough time, he might manage this as well.

It was something different, always on the periphery, never really there. A nagging and prodding feeling that he didn't quite belong. Or, at least, that something _about him_ was off. Thoughts churning, he twisted on his mattress although he had already been lying comfortably. Maybe he'd be able to get some sleep if he turned his pillow around so he could sleep on the cold side? But even when he did so, he knew that it most likely wouldn't help, as the uneasiness hadn't faded.

He hadn't acquired this feeling upon his arrival at Durmstrang. It had been with him before, even back at the inconspicuous mansion close to Liverpool he'd lived in for the most part of the last years. A few weeks ago, it had suddenly appeared, and he still had no idea of its true cause. When he had been standing on the platform, debating with Karkaroff about whether he would be accepted or not, he had hoped that this distinct feeling of not belonging would vanish here. As it seemed, he'd hoped in vain. The worst thing was that he couldn't put his foot on what exactly wasn't right. A few times, he had tried to get a grip on it, to explore the reasons for it, but it had effortlessly slipped from his mental grasp.

There wasn't only negativity, though. There still was the _magic_. Again, he patted his wand and he was almost tempted to rise from his restless bed, sneak out of the room and look for somewhere to practice or at least try out what his wand could do. He was pretty sure others had done so because the last time he looked around in the room there had been a few empty beds. But breaking the rules the first day didn't seem smart when Igor Karkaroff pretty obviously had it out for him. At least, tomorrow he'd finally get to try his hand at it. Until now, he only had the names of the subjects to think about, because he had no books and – if he thought back – no tales about the different subjects.

Curious, in retrospect, that back at the mansion it had never occurred to him to ask and find out more, because now, the simple image of weaving his wand and creating something new or influencing his surroundings had his stomach bubble with excitement. But on the other hand, he hadn't been able to experience the feeling of holding your own wand before, a feeling that couldn't be described to someone who didn't know it. Maybe it could best be circumscribed with "belonging", the very belonging that he otherwise missed. In his opinion, Gregorovitch needn't have mentioned that he had to "get to know his wand". Because there simply was no way he wouldn't.

And apart from that, he had even had a friendly conversation with a stranger, and there was no Dudley anywhere near that could ruin it for him. Perhaps, just perhaps, Harry thought, he would be able to finally make a friend here after having had no chance to get one before.

Dudley ... That was a darker part of his memories, one he had always wanted to avoid thinking about, but within the last weeks, he had done so with increasing frequency. The problem weren't the insults that'd been thrown at him, though. Nor the exploitation. Nor the malnourishment they had put him through from time to time. To Harry, these were pleasant memories now, because they proved that the things he'd been told afterwards were right. And they proved that _he_ had been right.

In blowing the Dursleys up, that is. Because even if he didn't ever mean for anything like this to happen and even if they hadn't been nice people, he still felt – well, sorry, wasn't the right word, because there was no way he'd ever be sorry about the death of muggles as despicable as them. Except - somehow he was. And the dark mood that surrounded so many of Durmstrang's facilities seemed to increase the dread he felt whenever he thought back to what had happened. Maybe, there was no proper home to be found here, he thought with a pang of sadness, before sleep more and more managed to lull him into darkness. His wand still rested in his hand.

* * *

 **AN: The next chapter will be posted on January 20 - if not before - and, remember - reviews make every author happy.**

 **AN2: Everything you might think to be strange WILL be explained in future chapters.**

 **AN3: English is not my first language, so a few errors are to be expected. I would be pleased if you were able to point them out.**

 **AN4: This story will not contain romance (except maybe as a very minor subplot). If you are looking for that, you will find yourselves disappointed.**

 **AN5: Future chapters will have around 3-4k words, because otherwise, updates would be substantially slower. The planned update schedule is once-a-week.**

 **AN6: First chapter contains lots and lots of exposition. None of the future chapters are going to have nearly as much.**

 **AN7: The statement "no bashing" does not fully exclude Cornelius Fudge.**

 **AN8: None of the German sentences are in any way important to the plot.**

 **Updated as of 01/27/17 to remove the AN's from the beginning of the chapter and to add a section for Harry.  
**


	2. An Unexplainable Event

_Chapter 2: An Unexplained Event_

* * *

Cornelius Fudge remained, at least in his opinion, impressively composed when his eyes caught the headline of the Daily Prophet's newest edition. Granted, his head went a bit red, but it had previously shown itself prone to do that from time to time, so that couldn't really count as "losing countenance".

 _ **HARRY POTTER FINALLY FOUND!**_

 **How, where, why and what this potentially means for all of us  
** _After his suspicious absence for the last ten years, one of our nation's most popular heroes has reappeared – but not where everyone was expecting him to. Harry Potter, the world-renowned Boy-Who-Lived, has apparently chosen to..._

He didn't have much experience, being Minister for only one year at this point. He struggled to keep up with his paper work (proven by the giant mountain of paper that had taken over his desk which seemed to grow every day) and oftentimes, he didn't really know what to do except the universal approach of "go to Albus Dumbledore".

Yes, Cornelius Fudge was pretty sure that he was not supposed to be dealing with this mess. Harry Potter at Durmstrang! And no one had known, no one had even _told_ him this could happen! Fudge slumped against the back of his comfortable wine-red leather chair and breathed out all air that had been in his lungs. A public symbol of their victory in the war, in the very school everyone knew to have supported every single ideal You-Know-Who had stood for. Naturally, everyone would ask him how something like that could have happened and he didn't have a single answer for that question; he couldn't even explain it to himself.

Harry Potter. Durmstrang. It did not fit. Harry Potter was British and the defeater of Voldemort and not German and the successor of Grindelwald - but that of course was what the damned Daily Prophet had to insinuate and that would be what everyone believed!

For a moment, he contemplated just running to Barnabas Cuffe to announce his retirement, but then, he forced himself to calm down again, for there was a very important fact he needed to make perfectly clear: He was not the one to blame. Whoever had messed this up – it certainly hadn't been one Cornelius Oswald Fudge, and as long as everyone knew that, he theoretically should be safe. The only question remaining was: Who was at fault here, and would consequently be pilloried for it?

Fudge's head shot up when he heard someone knocking on the door, then his eyes wandered towards the massive mountain of paper in front of him. The evident need of a new undersecretary was his last mental notice before Albus Dumbledore entered his office.

"Dumbledore!" he exclaimed and hastily adjusted the sheets on his desk so that it looked a bit less like the chaotic mess it really was. "What a convenient appearance, if I may say so."

Dumbledore looked slightly less reassured than normally, even if Fudge couldn't really tell why. Maybe because of the faint frown on his forehead? With a small nod in Fudge's direction, the headmaster approached the Minister's desk and conjured himself a comfortable looking chair whose colour Fudge failed to define – except for the fact that it looked atrocious. That was decidedly unusual, Dumbledore liked to walk around when he spoke to him. Apparently, he also hadn't anticipated that something like this would happen – which made Fudge feel better immediately, because no one could foresee what even Dumbledore didn't know in advance.

"I have to admit that I have expected this," Dumbledore began without the usual preliminary skirmishing and sat down at the same time. Fudge resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Really, what had he been thinking? Of course Dumbledore knew – but at least, that also meant that everything would be easily cleared up.  
"I expected and feared it at the same time."

Except it seemed it wouldn't. "E-excuse me?"

"I take it that Millicent has not informed you of the incident that took place within the facilities of the Ministry three years ago?"

Fudge waved away Dumbledore's question for the moment, but he resolved to come back to it later as it sounded like something he actually _was_ supposed to know. "No, she hasn't, but that isn't the point, Dumbledore!" He felt that his face grew red again and, for approximately the seven-thousandth time in his life, wished that it would finally stop doing that. "Harry Potter is at Durmstrang! At _Durmstrang_! And I only know that because the Daily Prophet somehow got an enrolment list of that school!"

"Rest assured, Cornelius, that I am aware of this unfortunate development," Dumbledore replied calmly.

Had his first impression really been that this man was upset? No, of course he had to be more relaxed than ever. It was so goddamn infuriating. "The recent weather is an _unfortunate development_ ," Fudge replied, voice rising.  
"This is a catastrophe! Dumbledore! It's not as if he has chosen _any_ school to reappear – no, it just had to be Durmstrang! Do you know what people are going to think? I can almost hear that damned Barty Crouch: 'Oh, Harry Potter is going to Durmstrang? Why did no one tell us? And isn't it suspicious for Mr. Fudge to have remained completely silent about it? Minister, what do _you_ think?' And you know what, Dumbledore? I can very much sympathize with that sentiment, because _I don't know anything as well._ "

Dumbledore didn't even blink during Fudge's rant, he just waited until the minister was finished, then he readjusted his sitting position a bit. "Believe me, Cornelius that this is – given the circumstances – a heavily worrisome piece of news, even graver than you might think at the moment. And at the same time, I am more relieved than you could possibly imagine."

Fudge's head shot upwards abruptly and he crossed his arms. One sheet of paper slowly floated towards the ground, but he didn't even consciously notice. "So you knew this would happen."

"I was aware of three distinct possibilities." Dumbledore started to count on his fingers' ends, and while he did so, his usually twinkling eyes became more and more absent. "The first one was Harry arriving, as was expected by almost everyone in Britain, in Hogwarts. The second one was him choosing other educational institutes, prematurely Durmstrang. The third one..."

"You knew!" Fudge shouted and pointed an accusatory finger towards his most important advisor. His voice was unnaturally high, almost cracking, his eyes comically widened, but he didn't care one bit.

Dumbledore simply confirmed it with a nod.

"And it didn't – even – I mean, not _once_ did it occur to you that I _might_ be interested in the whereabouts of our greatest celebrity?!" Only after this sentence Fudge noticed that his head was now in a notably higher position than Dumbledore's but, for the life of him, he couldn't remember when he had stood up.

"Of course this occurred to me," Dumbledore confirmed, "I just decided not to tell you."

On the back of his mind, Fudge knew that he was being set up, for whatever reason that might be. But if you had just come to the realization that you didn't know half the things you thought you did, it was surprisingly difficult to maintain any appearance of outward calmness.

"That is a very unhealthy shade of red, if I dare say so, Cornelius," Dumbledore added, sounding slightly worried.

" _I am the Minister of Magic_!" Fudge roared and threw his hands towards the ceiling in incredulity. „You cannot simply – I have a right to know! If anyone has to know, it's me!" He had bent over his own desktop so that he was now face to face with Albus Dumbledore, but Hogwarts' headmaster still hadn't even moved. "I can't believe it," Fudge continued, deflating a bit. Taking a deep breath, he managed to calm himself down marginally, but he resumed talking immediately afterwards.  
"No," he continued in a somewhat contrived impression of Dumbledore, "He's the one in charge, why even tell him anything? After all, I'm Albus Dumbledore and I have that big collection of Orders of Merlin and, well, everyone wanted me to be Minister last year, so I practically am one as well. So, let's just-" Fudge's mouth remained opened, but no words emanated, as if he didn't know how to articulate his outrage anymore.

"Please, Cornelius, compose yourself."

"Yes, you know, you're making that a t _iny bit_ difficult," Fudge retorted, still bit breathless from his outburst.

Once again, Fudge was forced to experience the scrutinizing gaze of Dumbledore's bright blue eyes, and, as it had been the case before, he felt fully exposed. "I did not wish delay telling you, even though it is, I'm afraid, not a story I like to relive. To be honest, I was fairly certain that Millicent would have already let you in at this point, alas, it seems that she did not do so."

Dumbledore readjusted his half moon spectacles a bit and sighed quietly. "There are two versions of this unfortunate tale. One is rather short and the other one contains a few more details. You will want to hear the shorter one, I presume?"

"Please."

Nodding, Dumbledore began his story. "Three years ago, the Improper Use of Magic Office detected an exceptionally startling case of underage magic in a suburb of London in Little Whinging, Surrey. They were not able to find much – except a few sad remnants of what seemed to have been a house, and a little boy with a scar resembling a lightning bolt."

"There are no records whatsoever about this," Fudge said, intertwining his fingers with increasing speed. He had a feeling where this was going, and this feeling didn't tell him anything he wanted to hear.

"Given the following events, that was to be expected. Be that as it may, Harry Potter was brought to one of the Ministry's bureaus for what should have been a temporary stay. By happenstance, I gained knowledge of his location at the time, and was granted my wish of talking to him."

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath, reminding Fudge of exactly how difficult this subject had to be for him. Normally, he'd never show such obvious signs of emotion. "Cornelius, the room Harry Potter was kept in at that time had been heavily protected, using spells that no mere accidental magic could ever hope to penetrate. And yet, when I entered, the bureau proved to be empty. Since that day, Harry Potter has remained unseen and his location unknown."

There was a minute of silence after Dumbledore had finished his tale. Cornelius Fudge just shook his head repeatedly, until he finally gave himself a nudge, went towards the brown-golden cupboard standing next to his desk and opened it.

The Minister didn't bother with a drinking vessel, he simply took out the carefully hidden bottle of Firewhiskey and let the liquid burn its way down his throat. Dumbledore watched as he drank in silence.

"Well," Fudge finally said, having decided on the best formulation. "Crap."

"I would have maybe phrased it slightly less vulgar, but I do agree with the sentiment."

This was a sentence Fudge was fairly certain he'd have shouted at Dumbledore about, but he just couldn't bring himself to muster any energy even for that. He was fairly sure now that Dumbledore had just enraged him previously so that he could tell his little story without interruptions.

"So, there really is no way the boy could've managed that without help," Fudge summed up and took another sip from his bottle. "And we don't know the culprit." Sitting down again, the Minister glanced at Dumbledore. "Do we?"

For a moment, again, no one talked, and Dumbledore's eyes suddenly became a bit harder, icy even. "I have a few theories", he said without changing the calm tone of his voice in the slightest. "They all tend not to hold up."

Fudge immediately felt that he hadn't eaten anything until now; the Firewhiskey was making its way towards his brain with spectacular speed. The only conclusion he could draw from this notion was to take another gulp as he was fairly certain that he'd have good use for the wondrous effects of Firewhiskey today.

"And the two of you, Minister Bagnold and you, you then proceeded to decide that no one needed to know?"

"Millicent was very insistent on this point, and I still do not disagree, if I am to be completely honest. If such an incident happened under your supervision, Cornelius, I take it that you would be far keener to make the public aware of it?"

"Of course!" Fudge replied boisterously. „If there'd be something the public needed to know, I wouldn't hesitate for one second!"

"My doubts of this bold statement aside – _did_ the public need to know?" Fudge glared at him, then he shook his head yes.

"But had they known, what would have changed? A wizard that does not want to be found has stupendous amounts of possibilities available to avoid exactly that. We did not have a face, we only knew that a little boy had somehow managed to break out of an exceptionally well-protected room even adult wizards might have struggled to escape. The only success we could have expected was uproar in the public, and neither Millicent nor I thought that to be particularly helpful."

Fudge nodded at first, but then paused, startled by a new thought. "Just wait a second. You said you knew that the causa Harry Potter was about to go public _this very day_. At least, you knew that the problem definitely wouldn't disappear, and you still told no one– great, thank you _so_ much! No, it was of course far smarter to wait until Cornelius Fudge was elected Minister so _he_ can clean up behind everything you've messed up – _including_ the uproar you wanted to avoid dealing with!" Fudge shook his head, fully aghast. "What a wondrous plan, Dumbledore! Of course, go on, shift all the crap to me! Really, I'm positively _ecstatic_ now that I understand everything!"

"I did not get to mention the third way this day could have gone," responded Dumbledore matter-of-factly and with so obvious disregard for Fudge's complaints that the aforementioned was rendered speechless for a few seconds. "The one which, admittedly, provided the most gruesome option: That this day would come and pass _without_ a sign of Harry Potter's continued wellbeing. And now, Cornelius, try to imagine such a prospect looming over the public's head for _three years_ , without any opportunity for the Ministry to actually do something about it."

OK, so maybe they had been a bit justified in their decision, but- "I just want to point out that I am not the public. I don't know if you've noticed, but this is the Minister's office. If I didn't already mention it, I'm sorry, but last time I checked I was-"

"Minister, _I know_ ," Dumbledore interrupted and Fudge was fairly certain that there had been a sigh hidden in his voice. "What information the new Minister acquires from the old one is, as I believe I stated previously, not within my influence. If you consider Millicent's actions to be that incomprehensible, I'd recommend you to simply ask her. She also answers to letters, I believe."

"Great." Fudge shrugged and shook his head, still not really believing what he'd just been told. "Anything else I should know? Some unimportant side news, maybe? Grindelwald managed a Nurmengard breakout? You-Know-Who recently returned?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard and shook his head, smiling. "I am afraid that, in terms of jeremiads, I have run out of replenishment."

Fudge nodded in a way that clearly communicated just how impressed he was, then his gaze turned back to his Firewhiskey, because he suddenly felt like he wouldn't be seeing that particular bottle again after today.

In doing so, he missed how the smile vanished from Dumbledore's face without a trace of its previous existence. He missed how the headmaster of Hogwarts allowed himself, in a very rare moment of weakness, to cover himself with his hands, expressing shame and desperation at the same time. Albus Dumbledore had been forced to lie twice, today.

He knew much more about Harry's escape than he had ever let on, because he had _seen_ the culprit, and yet, he hadn't been able to prevent it. He knew who, apart from his own failure, was responsible for Harry's disappearance.

Lord Voldemort.

And if Harry had returned, without a trace of _Him_ , then it meant that ... Voldemort had as well.

* * *

Of course he was late. This was due to an entirely unlucky causal chain, which had begun with staying awake until three o'clock in the morning. It had then continued with awaking at five o'clock and being unable to sleep again, which led to him trying to use his wand without using any actual spells. The map had led him to an empty classroom, and then he'd tried to do magic. The funny thing was that, from time to time, there actually _was_ a reaction to his made-up incantations - a drop of water would emerge from the tip of his wand or a breeze of wind would blow through the classroom. In short, he completely forgot the time and remembered far too late that he should be elsewhere. Maybe, he'd remembered, but he had already seen that his first scheduled lesson was "Potions" and, well, Potions had nothing to do with magic, at least in Harry's mind. The causal chain had then ended with him racing through the castle's narrow and ambagious corridors that seemed to have built-in random stairs and corners for extra-confusion - and getting lost twice. The map turned out to be of no use if you didn't even have the time to look at it.

Harry silently cursed himself for his lateness when he entered. His interpretation of "don't get noticed" seemed to be "arrive late on your first day", and given Karkaroff's mistrust that surely wasn't a good thing. However, he needn't have worried, because Professor Dmitrijew just looked at him for a second, then he rolled his eyes and proceeded to examine his desk again. Obviously, this teacher wasn't particularly interested in the punctuality of his students, and he also seemed to wait for three or four others. Harry surely wasn't going to complain about it and instead took a book out of the opened cupboard that was standing next to the entrance of the room. He didn't know how and when the fee he'd been promised the lending of books would cost him would be due, but it didn't seem to be now.

Looking for somewhere to take a seat, Harry noticed that this room had to have been specifically built for the purpose of Potions lessons. The lighting was far brighter than in the corridors – even though there was neither a window nor another source of light recognizable – most likely to avoid ingredient confusion. The most eye-catching detail was the ceiling which had several bell-mouthed holes built into it. It seemed that Durmstrang had been built at a time where the possibility of poisonous fumes was at least not entirely discarded, even though the first page of Harry's Potion's book said that the only probable effects were short periods of confusion, mostly induced by love potions.

Feeling a bit lost, Harry peered around. Where to sit down? He didn't feel like he had understood much of what the Potion's book said so the front row was definitely out of question. Then, he spotted the guy he had talked to the day before, and thought back to the last night. He wanted a friend, right? Maybe, this was the exact moment where he had to do something about that.

"Can I sit here?"

"Sure," Rodriguez replied. Harry didn't say anything else, but he smiled and sat down.

Five minutes later, the classroom was considerably fuller, now containing a bit more than 20 first years. Dmitrijew glanced at the children in front of him, then he rose from his cushioned chair.

"Hello, everyone. Seven people have managed to be punctual today, and therefore passed the very first test of their academic career. Congratulations to those, the others shall be reassured with the notion that, last year, I had to wait 17 minutes until the majority had decided to appear."

He began to pace with lowered head, not once looking at his students. His voice had a sort of depressing quality that was hard to grasp, nonetheless it was as if-

"You'd think he's speaking at a funeral," Rodriguez whispered and Harry grinned. That was an almost exact replica of his train of thoughts - maybe, just maybe...

"Of course, with the map we give you one would think that we could expect some measure of punctuality, but with today's students, there is very little you can actually expect."

Wow, this teacher was grating on his nerves already, and Harry knew him since _yesterday_.

"You will have noticed that this room does not contain all of your classmates, but we had to split you into two groups; otherwise we wouldn't have been able to provide adequate progress during our lessons. And especially with today's students-"

Somewhere, someone groaned.

Dmitrijew decided to leave it at that and subsequently turned towards a subject that would have been tiring even without his steady droning out: The intricacies of Potion-making. Well, Harry had to admit that he doubtlessly knew what he was talking about (at least he got that impression when he – few and far between – made an effort to actually listen). However, equally doubtlessly, he had no idea how to make it appear in any way interesting for an audience.

Shortly before the lesson ended, Harry suddenly snapped out of his waking absence when a very overweight, heavily panting guy came running into the classroom. Professor Dmitrijew stopped talking mid-sentence and blinked.

"Sorry," the boy gasped and slumped on a chair, completely exhausted. His face was covered in sweat and he looked as if he wasn't far from fainting. Somewhere, someone snickered – it was that Armin guy who had gotten his wand first yesterday, if Harry wasn't mistaken.

"How did you even manage _that_?" the professor asked exasperatedly. "Hannes Kuggel, am I correct?"

The boy just nodded, too occupied with regaining his breath to speak.

"82 minutes," Dmitrijew stated. His voice seemed a bit distant, almost consternated. "Even these days, I wouldn't have expected-"

"I couldn't do anything!" Kuggel winced. "I tried, sir, I really did! But there was this wall and when I passed it, I-"

The change that went through Professor Dmitrijew when Kuggel mentioned the "wall" was astonishing. For a moment, he suddenly seemed much more _aware_ , almost on edge. "You're excused!" he rushed to say, voice sharp as a whip.

"But sir, I-"

"I already said you're excused. Our subject is Potions, not your illustrious adventures. However, please stay behind after the class has ended. Now, back to the effects of Wormwood..."

* * *

"Well, if that wasn't an interesting lesson, I don't know what should be," Rodriguez said when the class had ended and they were slowly leaving the Potions classroom for the next lesson, which would be "Combat Magic".

Harry almost exploded with laughter, but then he saw the expression on his acquaintance's face.

"Wait a second," he said, having calmed himself down. "Are you actually serious?"

* * *

 **Updated as of 27/1/2017 to give Harry a bit more personality.**


	3. An Unglamorous Introduction

_Chapter 3: An Unglamorous Introduction_

* * *

Lord Voldemort did not make mistakes. He had long believed that statement to be true, and he still wasn't ever going to admit otherwise, but the incident at Godric's Hollow had taught him nothing if not a grain of modesty. Yes, he did make mistakes, although they were few and far between. Right now, he was asking himself if he hadn't just made another one. After all, where Harry Potter was concerned, he had previously shown himself prone to bad decisions. The Dark Lord did not move while he contemplated his thoughts; he was sitting on his dark green armchair without any indication that he was even awake except his opened red eyes.

The boy had been in no way ready to be exposed to the machinations Albus Dumbledore – and others - would most likely use to get to him, he was aware of that. He had only created his own body a few weeks ago, after all, just one or two months after his chance-induced encounter with Wormtail. Not even he was able to rewrite the basic personality of a human being during that time. And the boy's personality at the moment was unfortunate to say the least. He was far too naive, far too susceptible to the very sentimentalities people like Albus Dumbledore liked to pollute the world with. Of course, the boy remembered that Mudbloods were inferior, he remembered that Muggles were nothing but human-shaped animals, but these views were still superficial, and when exposed to counter-evidence, there was a good chance they would crumble.

There were two reasons that had motivated him to send Harry away despite that. The first one was the school he had sent him to. Durmstrang had a very effective system to ward against muggleborn students: They did not send out any letters, which meant that every student had to apply for their school instead – and no Mudblood had any way to know that they even existed. Therefore, the chance that Harry would even encounter someone able to shake these beliefs were low. Additionally, the location of Durmstrang remained a closely-guarded secret, and he could personally testify to the fact that there was _no way_ anyone would be able to find it.

On his travels, he had made it one of his goals to discover the honorary institute's location – if only to hide one of his Horcruxes there - but he hadn't been able to just find a clue of the castle. Even if Dumbledore managed to contact the traitor that currently was in charge, there was no chance that he'd be personally able to arrive at Durmstrang when Karkaroff didn't allow him to. And if he knew anything about Karkaroff – except his despicable cowardice – he would make it as hard as possible for the old man to reach his goals. After all, his father had been one of Grindelwald's most loyal followers.

The second reason was also the reason he was even contemplating this already made decision. He had a certain measure of security when it came to Harry's mind, a limited influence on what he thought and did. He had thought this link to be inseparable as even back then, when he was hidden behind the Ministry's wards, he had been able to tell what the boy's feelings were. Obviously, this was where he had miscalculated, because there was nothing. No feelings, no general impressions of his mood, _nothing._ Whatever connection they had previously shared, it seemed to be severed now. Or, at least, suppressed.

Of course, it maybe was gone for good, but it was more likely that, by pure chance, the wards of Durmstrang prevented any form of mental communication from happening. Therefore, Voldemort had to rely on the first supporting pillar to work out, and he didn't like that one bit. The boy played quite an important role in his future plans, and it just wouldn't do to see those thwarted by a stroke of mishap.

As of now, however, he would have to focus on other plans, as there was nothing he'd be able to do about Harry Potter at the moment. It was, maybe, due time to finally announce his recent return from the dead to a certain man he had believed to be one of his most dedicated followers. It was time to scare Lucius Malfoy.

* * *

Combat Magic. Harry had been seriously looking forward to this class, because it sounded exciting and adventurous in a way that, for example, something called "Charms" could never hope to replicate. And at least the class room promised more than the one before: There was the skeleton of an animal that might have once been a three-headed dog standing in a corner of it, and there was this huge wooden platform, at least twenty meters in length, located even behind the teacher's desk. So there would be something like magical duelling, Harry estimated, and that added another measure of excitement to his anticipation of this lesson. Rodriguez, who was sitting next to him, didn't seem to agree with this sentiment, when he judged the face he made correctly, but that didn't distract him at the moment. The only thing that bothered him a bit was the small and hunchbacked person standing in front of the teacher's desk.

He was, in a lot of ways, reminiscent of Gregorovitch, and yet he wasn't. His age had played around with his body in a similar manner as with the wand maker's; there were deep wrinkles in his face, his hair had become white and what remained formed an annulus around his head. And still, there was a very notable difference that Harry immediately noticed and that made him feel a certain dislike of the man even on first sight. He lacked everything Gregorovitch had radiated. There was no kind gleam in his eyes, no interest in the children in front of him and there certainly was nothing even remotely resembling joy. The corners of his mouth pointed downwards, his lips were pressed together and his eyes were narrowed – and the wrinkles in his face indicated that this was pretty much his usual facial expression.

Next to him, there were a few glowing blue letters flying in the air, forming what seemed to be the professor's name. _Rankor Skanar_ , Harry read, and then glanced back to the professor who hadn't moved one bit – apart from the fact he was looking directly at him. And that gaze wasn't a pleasant one, fitting Harry's first impression perfectly. Professor Skanar's eyebrows were furrowed, his mouth twisting into a sneer, and despite the fact that the man's height was far from impressive, Harry nearly felt physically intimidated by that spiteful expression.

When the last students had taken their seat Skanar began to speak. "It will be of interest to you," he snarled without the usual introduction, his speech ragged and harsh, every word resembling a whiplash of its own, "that this school has been _polluted._ "

Harry was very relieved when he noticed that Skanar didn't stare at him anymore, but at the same time, bewilderment crept into his mind. Who started a lesson about magic like _that?_

"I have made it a habit to skim the enrolment list of this highly traditional and respected school since I began teaching seventy-five years ago. Every year since then, these halls have not been penetrated by those every decent person will necessarily deem unworthy of any magical education." He began to slowly transit the classroom, eyeing every student as thoroughly as he had Harry.

"This year, this has changed." The words came out with the sort of damning finality that indicated a catastrophe had happened, but Harry still failed to see Skanar's problem. Others felt similarly, judging by their expressions, but no one dared to say anything.

Skanar's face twisted into something even uglier, something that spoke of utmost loathing and promised pain. " _Hannes Kuggel_ , stand up and reveal yourself to all your unknowing fellow students, reveal who it is that _dares_ to besmirch the last Pure school of Europe!"

Harry's stomach dropped for a moment when the fat boy that had been late in the last lesson stood up, sweating again. The boy had clearly been unprepared for that sort of hatred, he looked insecure and even quite a bit desperate. For a moment, he'd believed that the teacher would call _him_ out, and he couldn't imagine how it felt to be as exposed as Kuggel was right now.

Skanar's eyes gleamed. "So that is what the average Mudblood looks like," he drawled. „Take a good look, class, at the lows humanity can degrade to. I should have known, of course. Eyes, dull as that of the average sheep, a posture worthy of a seasoned settee and a shape most _pigs_ would be ashamed of. Please, everyone, take a good look at one of the biggest disgraces Durmstrang ever had to endure." A moment passed where the humiliated boy was just standing there, his expression so closed off that Harry knew he had to be close to bursting out in tears. He didn't really know how he should feel about this. Yes, he was obviously of lower blood, Harry knew that he wasn't as worthy a wizard as they were, but he still was a _human._ Behind him, Hermann Armin chuckled, openly grinning at Kuggel.

"I will give you one honest advice, Mr. Kuggel, before I will turn to the education of the worthy students in this room," Skanar continued with trembling nasal wings. "Leave this school and do not ever come back, for there is _nothing_ you can hope to amount to here." And with that, he faced away from Hannes Kuggel, who slumped down in his seat. But Kuggel didn't leave. From his seating position, Harry could see his face, and even though there were tears shimmering in his eyes, there was also a defiant glint hidden beneath. And Harry felt a rush of something he hadn't ever expected to feel where mudbloods were concerned: Admiration.

"That said, there is one other student whose presence makes me worry if he will prove to be an adequate addition to our student's body," Skanar continued whilst returning towards his teacher's desk. "But it is difficult to tell in advance with Halfbloods, because they are essentially torn, the incompatible types of blood fighting for dominance. Whether a worthy wizard emerges solely depends on which side wins out. We will be seeing that, won't we, _Mr. Potter_?"

Harry looked up, startled, and saw that the spiteful gaze was again directed at him. For a moment, he was seriously considering to retort, because Skanar definitely deserved for implying his mother's blood was in any way unworthy. Even Voldemort had said that she'd been an exception! But he kept himself as composed as possible apart from his clenched jaw, because he still remembered the promise he'd given just two days ago. But he'd definitely show the old man, he vowed, sooner or later. Gladly, Skanar didn't expand on him further. For now.

"He's an absolute bastard," whispered Harry in Rodriguez' direction, and the Spaniard nodded slowly, his expression slightly panicked even though _he_ wasn't going to be under special supervision.

Skanar meanwhile finally chose to speak about his lessons. "Even those of proud heritage, though, will have to _work_ in this course. And with work, I mean that you will have to apply yourself with all strength you can somehow muster." Whatever his character faults, he had a way to use his voice that made listening to him a pure necessity. Every word was accentuated as if it was a sentence of its own, and that filled them with meaning they would have lacked otherwise. His unwavering gaze also contributed – Harry already began to ask himself if the man even needed to blink.

"For this is the one subject that neither includes purposeless object changes nor funny wand-weaving to relieve you of seemingly mundane tasks _nor_ useless _talking_. Combat Magic will be everything you will ever need to _survive_ , so listen closely, work hard and study this vast field of magic with the utmost dedication. Most things you will learn at this school are simple magical tricks. Combat Magic, on the other hand, is about proving ability, the ability to think and adapt quickly, the ability to react correctly and the ability to perform flawless magic even under pressure, and I will be teaching every single one of these abilities to you – with one obvious exception." Skanar crossed his arms in front of his chest and closed his eyes for a moment. "The very first lesson you need to learn is to _be on guard all the time._ " In the blink of an eye, he was _moving_. It almost felt like time had been accelerated for a moment.

"Tarantallegra!" Skanar spat and a dark blue bolt of light hit Hannes Kuggel squarely in the chest before anyone had the chance to react. Hannes Kuggel's arms immediately began to jerk despite his attempts to still their movements. Shortly afterwards, his legs did so as well and he was forced to stand up to avoid hitting his own table. "If you do not", the Professor added, "you will end like the useless piece of meat over there." Skanar smiled, the gleam in his eyes stronger than ever.

Harry had to admit that the uncontrolled, uncoordinated dance Kuggel was forced to perform afterwards _did_ look funny, and he couldn't help but smile at the other's embarassment. But there also was the unwanted feeling that this whole situation was wrong, especially when he saw the tears now streaming down the boy's cheeks. Others didn't seem to share his empathy, and more than a few people were outright laughing at the fat boy that couldn't find a way to stop his dance. He even crashed into a table once, which led to another eruption of laughter.

Skanar performed the spell again, this time telling everyone to pay attention to his wand movements. Kuggel's motions even intensified, and the stream of tears that moistened his cheeks did as well. Harry's feeling of this situation's wrongness became stronger because it was of course understandable not to like someone, especially a Mudblood, but this ... it was too much. He couldn't even smile at what happened anymore as something inside him seemed to be violently protesting against it. If he was to be completely honest, he couldn't even understand why the Mudblood's fate bothered him that much. Maybe it was because of his past experiences with Dudley?

He just hoped that Skanar would stop this, the sooner the better, even though his anticipation for this subject had already been notably subdued by now.

"Now, it's up to you," Skanar shouted suddenly. Then, with another flick of his wand, he ended the spell. Kuggel immediately broke down on the floor, devoid of any strength, but the Professor didn't even spare him one look. "Imitate what I did and you should succeed. If you do not, feel free to ask for my help. Now, stand up and begin!" Not all of the students did as told, at least not fast enough. When Professor Skanar flicked his wand, several first years were very surprised to find their desks – and the chairs below them – sinking into the ground with an astonishing speed. At least, no one fell to the ground when it happened.

Harry turned to Rodriguez and the Spaniard showed a very pained smile.

"Look," he said, "I'd really like to partner up with you, but there's one thing I guess I have to admit before." That smile, for the second time, now mixed with a hint of nervousness.

"I'm ... I'm _bad_ at magic."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was presented with a riddle he, admittedly, hadn't considered before. The location of Durmstrang was a well-kept secret, but he hadn't thought it to be a secret _quite_ as well protected. He had of course repeatedly occupied himself with the German school, especially because of its insistence on teaching the Dark Arts. The International Confederation of Wizards did not approve, and he as the Supreme Mugwump had tried to convince Germany that this conduct was in no way desirable, which had resulted in a lot of nodding, a lot of friendly smiles, and an equal lot of inaction on the German's part. However, never had he actually _been_ to Durmstrang. He had also – a little – avoided thinking about the school too much because it still was interconnected with Gellert Grindelwald, and even after all these years, Grindelwald remained a sore topic.

Now, however, he had to find it. He didn't know what to expect from a boy that had been possessed by Voldemort three years ago, in front of his eyes no less. He couldn't imagine that Voldemort had managed to regain a body immediately, no, the possession had to have gone on for a far longer time. But who knew what influence such a treatment could have on a young boy's unsettled mind? He had just accidentally killed his relatives, and then spent several months at least in the direct company of a mind as powerful and deranged as the Dark Lord's. And that was excluding the potential damage the time with him afterwards most likely had wrought. He didn't have much hope for what he would find, but there was no way to circumvent the fact that he _needed_ to contact-

Dumbledore stopped wandering through his office for a moment when a distant memory crossed his mind. In his position, he didn't need to know every school's exact location and there was no way the Germans would reveal that of Durmstrang, as much was true, but he needed some means of communication in case of emergencies. While Beauxbatons was easily reachable through an owl, he recalled that Durmstrang, in fact, was not.

Instead, Attila Krasor, chairman of the Durmstrang school board, had supplied him with a white powder whose abilities were supposed to resemble Floo Powder, only it was specifically able to carry inanimate, non-magical objects. Its most obvious use was the immediate delivery of letters. And it was pretty much the only way to even communicate with anyone at Durmstrang.

He was unable to personally talk to Harry at the moment, but he certainly could send a letter to Karkaroff, and it wasn't entirely impossible that he'd succeed in meeting with Harry. Of course, Karkaroff would be nothing short of a brick wall when it came to doing him in particular any favours, but sooner or later, he'd find a way to circumvent that. If nothing else, it couldn't do any harm to take a closer look at the powder that would carry the letter and maybe, _maybe_ find out what route it took to arrive at the other school.

And if he at least implied Voldemort's continued existence, maybe Karkaroff's paranoia would win out.

* * *

The office the headmaster of Durmstrang was allowed to work in was surely one of the most beautiful rooms of the entire school. It was the only room where the windows weren't milky and you could see the clear blue outside. Furthermore, there was no other place at Durmstrang where walls and ceiling were as elaborately decorated.

Whereas most corridors and rooms consisted of smooth and grey stone, this room showed several pictures, all of them carved in the burnished wood Karkaroff's office was revetted with. Karkaroff had been told they presented the story of Durmstrang's foundation, but he'd never bothered to take a closer look at them and confirm that statement. And whereas most corridors were so narrow that you could touch both walls when stretching out your arms, and truckled and winded themselves through the building, seemingly without any system, this room was wide and easily overseeable.

Various inventions and other magical objects previous headmasters had gifted the school with had been standing on the desk when Karkaroff had inherited this position, but he had collected all of them and moved them to a few shelves placed in each corner of his office. He wasn't interested in obscure magical instruments. As a result, his desk – and by extension the whole office - was devoid of any personality; everything was clean and tidy, but there was nothing that pointed towards an actual human being living in this room. Igor Karkaroff very much liked it. The only thing he didn't like about his office at the moment was the orange fire that had just a moment ago lit up in the marble chimney behind his desk.

Someone had written to him. That in itself wasn't unheard of. But he seemed to know what he purposefully never told any parent of this school: How to readdress their letter in such a way that his office was _directly_ reached. Karkaroff didn't feel one bit inclined to listen to whatever Howlers would surely get to this room if this someone _told_ anyone of that possibility, so he figured it'd be best to open the letter immediately, if only to see who had written it.

Sighing, he stood up from the very comfortable armchair he had been seated in previously, and retrieved the still-smoking letter from the chimney. It had to have been an extraordinarily smart parent, because the paper was fire-proof, and Karkaroff had long since lost count on how many piles of ash Durmstrang had already been sent.

 _Igor,_

 _it might behove both of us to agree on a meeting within the next few weeks as I am convinced that certain unsavoury forces have gained much more influence within your school than you can conceivably want._

 _Albus Dumbledore_

That letter was worrying for various reasons, he immediately knew that. It was so worrying that Karkaroff even let himself be detracted from his former plans to immediately sit down in his armchair again. He remained standing in his bureau, the letter still in his hands. It took no genius to deduce who it was about; even in between these short lines, the name "Harry Potter" was written in bold, capital letters. Which meant, at least, that Dumbledore really didn't have to do anything with his appearance at Durmstrang. That was reassuring and at the same time unsettling, because if Dumbledore felt the need to _ask_ him for a talk – presumably in order to get to the boy – then it meant that _something else_ about this was very fishy indeed. Karkaroff read the last part of the sentence again.

This implication that he could have a personal interest in a thorough elucidation wasn't to be easily disregarded either. In fact, it was troubling him more than he let on, because there weren't many things he'd consider dangerous – and therefore meaningful – to him personally, and Dumbledore had to know that. However, every theory about this snippet's background Karkaroff could muster at the moment didn't make any sense. Which was, of course, the exact reason why the letter was phrased the way it was. Damned old man.

But even though he had to admit that he _did_ want – even had - to know more about Harry Potter's background, there was no way that Albus Dumbledore was ever going to get what he wanted when he was concerned. He had stopped being a Death Eater when he had rattled some of them out and he didn't care as much for some of their ideals as he did a few years ago – hell, he had even allowed that muggleborn boy into his school this year! – but that definitely didn't mean that he had to like or even trust that old man. And it didn't mean that one couldn't have some things he didn't do on principle. Therefore, his response would be short, concise and easy to understand.

 _Albus,_

 _No._

 _Igor Karkaroff_

And that was that.

He wished.

* * *

Juan Rodriguez had been right, Harry thought privately (although he wasn't about to tell him). He _was_ bad at magic. With Skanar's class, it had been fairly normal for most of the kids not to achieve any result. Granted, Harry had, but he had been quite an exception. He was still glad that he was because he had no doubts that the teacher would start treating him similarly to Kuggel if he ever gave that git a reason to think that the "lesser blood" had won.

However, in the otherwise uneventful Charms class afterwards Rodriguez had also been unable to produce any results - when most at least managed to do _something_. Harry had tried giving him tips, but neither his wand movements nor his pronounciation needed any work, and he had repeatedly assured Harry (and Professor Leiße, the Charms instructress) that he did envision the result. Still, it wouldn't work, and Harry didn't understand why. To him, the two spells they'd been taught until now had just come naturally; he hadn't even needed to concentrate too hard. But he had already offered that they could try to improve Rodriguez' results sometime after class had ended.

When the teacher for Etiquette entered the dark, narrow classroom (that more resembled an oversized wardrobe in lighting and available space) the first thing Harry noticed was that he did not look like someone who was supposed to be teaching at all. Professor Gilwar Rottweil was a thickset person with very prominent, bushy eyebrows that nearly hid his small, dull eyes from sight. His bull-necked back and the scar that glared in an angry red at his left cheek made him appear like more of a professional boxer than a teacher.

The first thing he did when entering the classroom was sitting down and putting his feet on the teacher's desk. Harry looked around in bewilderment, but it seemed that he was the only one really surprised by the man's behaviour. After all, he knew Rodriguez had told him that he'd be pretty strange, but Rottweil was supposed to be teaching _Etiquette_ , and Harry was fairly sure that this was no acceptable sitting position.

"That's Professor Rottweil for you," Rodriguez commented, having noticed the look on his face.

"Shut up, everyone!" the Professor ordered from behind his desk. Normally, it most likely wouldn't have worked, but his threatening outer appearance still seemed to impress most of the first years. At least Harry thought that he wouldn't want to meet that man in a dark alley at night.

"Now, we teachers at Durmstrang like to introduce our respective subjects with impressive speeches. That's an easy task, when you're teaching Transfiguration or Combat Magic. However, you tell me how to make an impressive speech about _Etiquette_. To be honest, I've tried that once, and I found myself yawning even before I had finished the first _word_."

Not that Harry had looked forward to this subject in any way, but this sounded a tiny bit ridiculous.

"So, what to tell you about my subject? The best summary about it I've ever come up with is as it follows: If I really planned to do my job, I'd be teaching you how to pretend you're a nice chap when you're really nothing short of a complete asshat. I'd be teaching you how to properly kiss anyone's full moon and I'd be teaching you which ways of action piss people off in which countries." He snorted disdainfully. Nearly everyone now stared at him in disbelief, but he didn't seem to be bothered by that one bit.

"In short, I'd be filling your heads with _bullshit_. If you're a capable wizard, you can get away with almost everything, and I think I don't have to tell you that shitting on the top of a wedding cake is, in general, _not_ an advisable action to take."

 _That_ sentence broke whatever spell had prevented the children in the class from talking. Harry and Rodriguez just looked at each other and shrugged, not knowing what even to say to that. However, the growing noise did seem to bother Rottweil, he had even taken his feet from his desk.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, EVERYONE!"

The whole class stared at him in complete shock, although he didn't seem to be furious, just pleased that his shouting had silenced them.

"There maybe is one law that I'll have to teach you about, but don't worry, it's easy to understand." The teacher grinned mischievously. "That particular Etiquette law is quite old, even if I'll have to slightly rephrase it for educational purposes. So, listen up! The law reads: 'I'm the teacher, I'm in charge, and you're the students, you're at the absolute bottom of the educational food chain.'" The grin even widened. "It maybe doesn't sound like much, but believe me, it's going to be the only law we need in my lessons." Harry wasn't sure, but he had the impression that this guy had a lot of fun ridiculing his own subject.

"Can you tell me what he's even doing here?" he whispered to Juan.

"Getting money for nothing?"

The man's head shot up. "Mr. Rodriguez! Care to elaborate?"

Juan Rodriguez gave Harry a panicked glance. How could he possibly have heard that? "I-I didn't say anything, Sir?"

"If you're going to lie to me, at least keep away the "Sir" part; that just makes it worse." To Harry's surprise – and relief, on behalf of Rodriguez – the man didn't press the subject. Instead, he smirked and put his legs back on the table in front of him.

"Instead of teaching you about the pile of uselessness that is anything even remotely connected to etiquette, I have a generous offer for you: I'm allowing you to do your homework in this class. I'm even going to help you with that, as far as I can. In exchange, you won't tell anyone about what _really_ happens in these lessons. I hope that doesn't disappoint anyone?" Rottweil sneered. "Because if this actually is the subject you're most interested in, I'd recommend instant suicide as there's only a slim chance you'll achieve anything else worth noticing in your life."

"If – and I don't care about the "hows" and "whys" – the content of my lessons gets to someone's ears, especially to those of our esteemed headmaster, I'm gonna throw this offer outta the window and you're gonna sit through the most tiring, uninspiring and useless lessons of the universe. Do we have an agreement?"

Harry didn't know about the others, but for him, they had. Thinking about it, it was the best outcome they could've expected. After all, the Professor – could he be called that? – was right when he pointed out that it wasn't the most compelling topic in the world.

The teacher wasn't quite done, however. "That said, I feel like I owe you an explanation. One might ask why I'm here and teaching despite the fact that I think my own subject to be violently disgusting? No, I'm not just here to grab money, as Mr. Rodriguez over there seems to think. I initially came here to teach the elective "Magical Oaths", but was then actively prevented to do so because no one likes the idea of such oaths being explored – and maybe becoming breakable in the process. Long talk, short story, I was ready to accept scandalously low payment and ended up with the single position no one wanted, myself included."

That didn't exactly explain why Durmstrang, a school that didn't look at all like they had any financial problems, choose to let a subject be taught like this, but a better answer didn't appear to be forthcoming. And it bothered him, most likely because he was pretty sure that there was some deeper reasoning behind this. And because he didn't like unresolved mysteries. Which painfully reminded him of the strange feeling of somehow not quite _belonging_ – whether to his own body or to this place – that still relentlessly prodded at his mind.

* * *

 **AN: This story has been plagiarized, and I think it's quite comical that the plagiarization has more reviews than this. Life is funny sometimes :D**

 **AN2: The first chapter now has an added final scene, the second chapter has a heavily reworked second scene. You might want to check them out.**

 **AN2: Minor spoiler! Rodriguez really is bad at magic, but he'll be capable in other areas. I just never saw a fic where someone close to Harry wasn't proficient in any way at magic, so I wanted to write one. Gilwar Rottweil is going to be one of the most important characters in the whole fic, but the reason for that'll remain secret for a while.  
**

 **The next chapter will be out at 02/03/2017**


	4. An Unwelcome Questioning

**_Chapter Four: An Unwelcome Questioning_**

* * *

"Seriously, are you even a wizard?!" Harry groaned and looked at Juan. They were in the dungeons of Durmstrang, but curiously, that didn't make any difference in terms of lighting. The only notable difference was the height of the ceiling that now was significantly closer to their heads.

"I'm trying!" Juan tried to justify himself, but this performance could hardly be justified anymore. They'd been practicing in this empty classroom since pretty much the beginning of the term – because Juan had asked him to - and while Harry was increasingly bored with what they practiced, it looked like even the most simple spells were going over Rodriguez' head. Which was even more irritating because his performance in Potions was nothing short of stellar.

"Yeah, and that spell's _easy_ ," Harry insisted. It was just so goddamn annoying not to make any progress no matter how often you explained the same thing, and at the moment he couldn't bring himself to care for the desperation in Rodriguez' voice. He knew that the Spaniard had been trying out spells since the beginning of the summer, and none of them had worked out (or at least not in the way he'd wanted them to). At some point, you just had to _do_ it and not try and try again while complaining that you _couldn't_ do it.

"Easy for you, maybe," Rodriguez retorted, his facial expression growing a bit more closed off.

"Yes, for me and everyone else in this entire school! I don't want to be mean, but we've been practicing this _one simple spell_ since _three weeks_!" Harry extracted his wand from his pocket and pointed towards the spell book they'd been practicing on. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

With no sign of its impressive weight, it lifted itself up into the air, performed a little looping and landed back on the table. Juan Rodriguez just watched, expression now more like a stony mask. "Yeah, I get it, you're a great wizard in the making and I'm an incapable squib. No further demonstrations needed, Mr. Potter, you've got permission to bloat your ego now."

Harry lowered his wand and sighed. "Look, I didn't want to – it's just a bit...I mean, I've been explaining this to you _every day_ in the last month."

"And I'm bad, you can believe me that I _know_ that. You, this fat muggleborn and a few others are throwing it in my face every single day, if you didn't notice. You hear a spell, maybe see someone perform it – and then you manage to do it on second or third try!" Now, that wasn't quite the truth, but it was correct that Harry had yet to really struggle with even one spell whereas there wasn't a spell Juan didn't struggle at.

The Spaniard threw his hands up in frustration. "And I think I already told you about what Skanar said to me – really, there's no thing in my life as clear as the fact that I. Am. Bad. At. Magic." After their fifth lesson, Rankor Skanar had pulled Juan aside and asked him without any recognizable irony if he was sure that Hannes Kuggel wasn't "stealing his magic", and reassured him that he would do everything he could to transfer it back to him if that was the case.

Harry hadn't been as sceptical of the idea as Juan was, but he had to admit it was quite a stretch to believe someone like Hannes Kuggel to perform outrageous acts like that. Still, his performances in Combat Magic in particular were surprisingly good, to Skanar's continued irritation. Therefore, Harry wasn't quite ready to let discard that theory completely, but as magical abilities in general seemed to be a bit of a sore topic for Rodriguez, he hadn't brought it up again.

"I know," Harry said, having calmed down a bit from his previous frustration. "It's just ... it seems like we're getting nowhere. I mean, I know you understand the theory and everything I say, and still..."

Juan eyed his wand contemptuouly. "And still this damned thing isn't going to do what it should."

 _("Did you try to get to know your wand a bit? Gregorovitch told me that that's important, knowing what it likes and what it doesn't like." – "Yes, I did. And somehow I'm quite sure it doesn't like_ **me**.")

Harry felt a bit ashamed at his outburst now – of course this situation was far more difficult for Juan than for him. One tended to forget that when he only heard the sarcastic comments and saw the crooked smiles Juan always gave when his attempts at magic – yet again – failed. Maybe it also was because of his own feeling that something about him hadn't quite adjusted which he always failed to grasp no matter how hard he tried. But he couldn't really excuse lashing out at someone that had to be far more frustrated than him.

"At least you're good at Potions," he offered, hoping for instant reconciliation. It wasn't like he wanted to be at odds with his newfound friend.

"Yes, if I could simply cook my spells, I'd be just fine," Juan answered, still looking like he'd just swallowed at least seven lemons at once. "Maybe I should write my parents so they get me a private tutor or something like that. It's not as if I'm going to achieve much in any subject but Potions."

"That's just nonsense!" Harry immediately snapped. He was going to add a few more words, but then he realized that he couldn't think of any arguments to support his statement. Juan's performance was dire, and although they hadn't been going to school for a very long time, that seemed almost like an understatement. But maybe, if he distracted Juan from that topic now, it wouldn't be brought up again.

"It's not as if you could even write anyone, I mean, I don't think you've got an owl with you."

Juan looked like on the verge of continuing his tirade, but then his eyes widened and he froze for a moment. "Wait...didn't Karkaroff tell you how to do that before you arrived?"

"He...no?"

Juan looked a bit unsettled now, but in a different way compared to before. "There's a room in the fourth corridor. Inside, you'll find a kind of powder that'll send your letters away." He paused for a moment, seemingly pondering if he should really say the next sentence out loud. "And in this whole month ... you never thought of writing home?"

Of course he hadn't, because Voldemort had said that he needn't bother. However, that surely wasn't the answer he was going to give. "My parents are dead," Harry replied matter-of-factly. "And if my...my guardian wants to contact me, he'll just send an owl."

Juan looked at him as if he'd just gone insane, and suddenly, Harry began to feel like something had gone very, very wrong without him noticing anything.

"An owl."

"Yes?"

"Half a kilometre below the surface of the water."

Harry could only gape.

"You're aware that owls can't swim, yeah?"

Brilliant. Just absolutely brilliant. That was bad for numerous reasons, but Harry chose to focus on the fact that he had failed to notice the fact his current home was situated under the _water._ Of course, it wasn't possible to make that out from inside the castle, what with the milky glass of the windows that barely let any light through and also didn't permit being looked through in reverse. But you'd think that someone would have at least mentioned it in the past weeks. Maybe he really should have spent more time with other people – even if their attention had unnerved him at first - than just sitting around in the calm environment of the library or practicing with Juan Rodriguez.  
"I...how does anyone get the idea to _dump a castle_?!"

Juan shrugged. "I guess they really didn't want to be found." Then, he looked up in bewilderment. "You didn't even know _that_? Are you serious?!"

His eyes still almost comically wide, Harry took a deep breath. So, this had the potential to grow into a disaster. He suddenly felt like someone had set him up, and he feared that this impression was very much true. Maybe that was why he had always had that strange feeling, to warn him of the fact that something about his introduction to Durmstrang had been off? Because, yes, Voldemort had been saying that he shouldn't contact him. However, he _also_ had been saying that he would of course contact Harry if that should prove necessary. Now, if it had and the letter hadn't reached its original destination – Harry supposed it was fairly easy to come to the conclusion that this wasn't a good thing.

Still feeling as if he'd been punched in the gut, Harry replied weakly: "Yes, I am serious. Excuse me, I guess I'm going to have to write a letter."

Juan frowned, and Harry got the impression that he thought about asking something, but in the end he decided not to.

* * *

Harry was walking fast, almost running. If he was honest, he himself didn't know why as there was little chance that the few minutes he made up this way were going to make any difference. But he felt like something had to be done right now, and he'd just gone insane if he lost any more time. Passing through the corridors of Durmstrang was a strange experience and yet, the way the corridors were built was one of the castle's most defining features. There were two main hallways in this school. Those were slightly wider than average and smoothened, with proper corners and regular floors. Most first year classrooms and the dining hall were accessible through them, but – if the map didn't lie to Harry – these strange "HOWLOs" weren't. Whatever they were supposed to be.

Every other "corridor" more resembled a secret passageway that had been carved into a massive mountain instead of a proper hallway: The ground was bumpy and those who didn't watch their feet were prone to stumbling over the slight irregularities of the bare stones. Windows were few and far between, and even then, they were small and milky and there wasn't any light coming through them, nor could one see through. If Harry was being completely honest, these weren't the most trust-invoking parts of the Durmstrang institute, but somehow, he had grown accustomed to the twisting and turning, the ups and downs that normal corridors wouldn't dream of doing. Apart from that, he didn't exactly think he was in danger. The only magical creature prone to show up in this environment was – if Professor Skanar was to be believed – the Boggart, and they'd dedicated three entire lessons to these little pests.

Slowing down a bit because he was becoming breathless, Harry climbed a small, seemingly randomly built-in staircase. He was now walking through a part of the school he'd never been to before, but if he was honest, it blended in with most of its other parts: It was dark, a bit grim even, and had a slightly claustrophobic air about it.

The room he finally arrived at, on the other hand, was quite an exception to the normal facilities Durmstrang offered. First of all, the milky layer on the two windows was notably lighter here, and for the first time, Harry was actually able to see through. Juan had told him the truth, as much was clear. There was a deep blue outside, far darker and more solid than any sky could ever be. It was still somewhat blurred, but he thought he could even make out the shape of a small fish swimming nearby.

The main protagonists of the room, however, were the three fireplaces standing next to each other, taking up almost all the space. None of them had actual wood lying inside, but that wasn't necessary for recognizing what these stone buildings were. On each side of the fireplaces, letters had been carved into the stone and coloured in gold. They provided a nice contrast to the sated green and black colours most parts of them were painted with.

 **Instruction Manual to Headmaster Ophelia Wolter's Letter-delivering Ovens (HOWLOs)**

 _First Step_ _: Take a bit of the Delivery Powder from the bowl next to the HOWLOs.  
_  
 _Second Step_ _: Put your letter onto the marked spot in the fireplace. Take heed that it doesn't lay next to it, or else half your letter will remain at Durmstrang._

 _Third Step_ _: Do not forget to send a measure of powder with your letter, as there is no other way for your parents to reply._

 _Fourth Step_ _: Loudly pronounce the desired destination of your letter. (Note: Reread the first word of the previous sentence and make sure to follow this advice. You do not want your letter to appear out of a campfire in Transylvania. Neither do we.)_

 **Warnings:**

 _1) Do not touch your letter when you send it. If you do, you might find yourself missing parts of your body._  
 _2) Do not eat the Delivery Powder. Its underlying system is based on the travel method used by Phoenixes and as volatile as these creatures tend to be._  
 _3) Do not try to rest_ other's _limbs on your letter when you send it. If you do, you might find yourself looking for a new a school within the next few days._

Harry blinked and shook his head, then he reread the last point of the warnings and momentarily forgot that he was in a hurry. He just hoped that ideas like that were a remnant of Durmstrang's past, because he rather liked his body parts where they currently resided. Most of the time – when you weren't in Rankor Skanar's class and witnessed his relish in Kuggel's humiliation – it felt like Durmstrang was as close to a normal school as it could get when magic was concerned, but little details like that reminded him that it actually wasn't. At least, he hadn't been personally subjected to its less savoury aspects until now.

"I wondered when I'd be seeing you in this room, Mr. Potter," a well-known voice drawled behind him. Harry hastened to turn around, his heart pounding. The voice had a certain vicious quality to it and there was no doubt that his day wasn't going to get better now.

"I think it's time we have another little chat," Igor Karkaroff added, a very repealing grin spreading all over his less-than-handsome face.

Harry immediately noticed that Karkaroff's bureau was a far brighter, nicer place than nearly the whole rest of the castle. But even though it lacked the gloomy atmosphere of most other parts of Durmstrang, it wasn't quite enough to relieve his tense mood. Its brightness was due to the fact that this room's windows were similar to those of the HOWLO's room: You could visually penetrate the unusually thin milky layer that normally prevented you from seeing through.

Sadly, that was the only pleasant thing he was able to take notice of at the point. Harry gulped when Karkaroff sat down and gestured for him to come a bit closer. Hesitantly, Harry took a step forward, even though he felt as if he should just try and run as the dangerous gleam in Karkaroff's eyes intensified.

"The true origin of your appearance in this castle, Mr. Potter, has – until now - remained a closely guarded secret, and I was willing to let sleeping dragons rest for a while. But I have a very strong feeling that you were just about to try and contact someone, and I'd very much like to know who that someone is."

Harry knew that there had been a background story made up by Voldemort he was now supposed to recite, but he had expected to be asked immediately after his arrival, not one month after the beginning of the term. As a result, his brain seemed to have gone wholly empty, and there wasn't a single acceptable explanation to be found, no matter how hard he thought. Knowing this, he tried nonetheless. "I wanted to write to ... someone that's like an uncle for me."

"Ah, then you'll be happy to hear that said uncle already made an effort to contact you," Karkaroff replied drily. Harry felt as if someone had just sucked all the oxygen out of the air.

"He has?" he managed while violently suppressing the gasp that wanted to force his way out.

"Unfortunately, he assumed that owls would immediately reach this school." Karkaroff scratched his beard, beginning to look very self-satisfied. "That assumption was reasonable, as the only way to apply for this school _is_ via owl. The owls then take the letter to a box solely dedicated to that purposed that is emptied once a year by the headmaster of Durmstrang. This year, it was emptied twice, actually, because I of course predicted what would happen." The headmaster crossed his arms in front of his chest and now stared directly at Harry. All of Harry's instincts were screaming at him to try and escape from this office, but he remained where he was, somehow even reciprocating Karkaroff's gaze.

"However, your 'uncle' is a surprisingly careful man. He has written you a letter full of empty drivel and somehow _forgot_ to sign his name. I think it's not an entirely unwarranted assumption to think that was a test; he wanted to check if I have preliminary access to the letters. Which, for the record, I do – if these letters are delivered by owl." Karkaroff narrowed his eyes. "That just leads me to this very interesting question: Why does your 'uncle' think that his identity and the content of your conversations should be kept secret and puts that much thought into the matter?"

"Well," Harry tried, already knowing that it was completely irrelevant what reply he gave. "I guess he values his privacy."

Karkaroff only raised his eyebrows. "Does the name Albus Dumbledore mean anything to you?" he asked instead of forcing the issue like Harry had expected him to. But this wasn't any better, in fact, the opposite was true. The change that went through Harry when that name was dropped was as instantaneous as it was obvious. His teeth crashed together with an audible crack, his hands turned into fists and his facial expression suddenly changed from panicked to hostile. His eyes were shining with suppressed emotion.

"So the name _does_ mean something to you," the headmaster of Durmstrang concluded. "And you don't think highly of him. At the same time, said Dumbledore thinks that I have permitted a threat to my own well-being into my school _and_ what seems to be your guardian behaves highly suspicious." He leaned over his empty desk. "Which of these facts, you think, speak in favour of your continued stay in this honourable institute?"

There was something cold crawling upwards in Harry. Maybe it was the mention of Dumbledore, maybe it was the desperation he felt when thinking about being forced out of Durmstrang just because of the headmaster's delusions of persecution. But suddenly, the emptiness in his brain was replaced by words, and for the first time since the beginning of this conversation, he had an idea on what to say."You suspected this right from the start."

Karkaroff nodded, still quite pleased with himself.

"But you still allowed me in. I think there's a very good reason for that, and I don't think it's vanished since then."

And the self-satisfied smirk was gone. "You are going to tell me who has sent you here right now, Mr. Potter, or else you're going to find yourself in circumstances you would find...tremendously undesirable."

Tremendously undesirable? So Karkaroff definitely _wasn't_ going to expel him, otherwise he'd surely replied differently. And now that he knew that, the panicked nervousness he had suffered from since entering was far less noticeable. He felt calm yet on the edge, and that was quite a strange experience. It was almost as if he'd been in a similar situation before, even though he couldn't remember something even close to that.

"What does that mean?" he asked because it would still be useful to get a sneak-peak at what awaited him when his explanations, inevitably, didn't fulfil Karkaroff's expectations.

"That means that I'm going to do as much as it takes to end your silence, Mr. Potter, and believe me that I have every right to go much further than you can possibly imagine now." Karkaroff's face had grown tenser now, and while the threat of expulsion wasn't there anymore, Harry couldn't help but feeling physically intimidated. There was a menacing aura about him the headmaster had previously lacked, and all his instincts were telling him that this was definitely more than just a show to threaten him. This man was _dangerous._ Harry felt his fear rise again but he was able to squash it and keep thinking, analyzing, searching for a way out of that dilemma. There was no way he'd get away with telling the truth, but there also was no way to get away with lying.

"He's...not someone that sticks to the law all the time," Harry said slowly, painfully aware that there was no way he was getting out of this unscathed. But he needed to carry on. "He's forbidden me to tell you even as much and I ... I'm really not allowed to tell you his name."

Karkaroff looked as if he was on the verge of bursting, so tense had his appearance become. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and for a moment, it seemed even more threatening than the dark passageways that meandered through the castle. "This someone...does he by any chance answer to the terminus 'Dark Lord'?"

Harry was awfully close to jumping when he heard those last two words. How was it possible that he could guess _that_?! Harry searched for Karkaroff's eyes, fighting against the urge to violently shake his head or do something equally traitorous. "You mean You-Know-Who? No."

The headmaster of Durmstrang kept the eye contact for another two seconds. It felt like an eternity to Harry but with self-control he didn't know he was able to muster, he willed himself to keep staring into his eyes. And he made sure he didn't even blink, because if Karkaroff didn't believe him on this matter, he couldn't even begin to imagine the consequences.

Karkaroff exhaled slowly and the air returned to its normal density. "Very well, Mr. Potter. Detention with Professor Rottweil. Let's see if we will manage to get you to be a bit more talkative in the near future."

* * *

 **AN: Sorry for the 1 1/2 hour delay. The next chapter will be posted on 02/18/2017, because I have a few important exams coming up in the following two weeks. After that, update speed will heavily increase. also, Harry's dislike for Dumbledore has a very good reason that's got nothing to do with an evil Dumbledore. When the exams are over, I'll also respond to any reviews I might receive.  
**


	5. An Undesired Day

**AN: Sorry for the delay! I had basically only the time span from Tuesday to Friday to get this chapter done, and it proved to be quite a nuisance. I'd have made it, I think, if I hadn't caught 39°C fever on Thursday and therefore wasn't able to write on Thursday - nor on Friday, for that matter. At least, my last exam was written on Monday, so I'm now finished with that. Until July.**

 _Chapter 5: An Undesired Day_ **  
**

* * *

Harry was of course not entirely sure, but the fact that Juan's eyes remained fixed on the piece of parchment even as he told the Very Interesting Story of Harry Potter's and Igor Karkaroff's talk seemed to indicate he wasn't listening at all. „And then he just gave me detention and continued to threaten me!" he added, pouring as much excitement into his voice as he was able to. It helped that he wasn't exactly calm about it. Juan made a noise that was absolutely impossible to decipher and continued to stare at what seemed to be a Potion's essay. Harry had to admit that he was getting a bit irritated.

"And then he tried to kill me."

Juan simply repeated whatever that noise was.

"And then he ripped my gut apart and - s _top hypnotizing that essay, for God's sake_!" shouted Harry, startling Juan so much that he almost poked his eye with the with the quill he had been holding.

"Sorry," the Spaniard replied almost defensively. "But this is a really interesting problem. I still don't understand how the Bulgeye Potion can have any lasting effects on one's outer appearance if there aren't any outer body parts in it, and normally, a Potion's ingredients are at least somewhat connected to its later effects. -"

"Sounds thrilling," Harry remarked, cutting Juan off as he took a deep breath for what would have doubtlessly been a very long, rambling sentence about the most boring intricacies of Potion-making. He was interested in magic, and he liked to broaden his horizon when it came to magic. But, when it came to him, throwing things into a cauldron until it smelled awfully didn't count as magic.

Juan blinked and then sighed. "What's up?"

"I've just got my first detention and I didn't even do anything. But that's not the problem. Karkaroff said he wants to do something to make me talk and I don't know what that'll be – but I guess there's some way to do it." That was an understatement. Harry wasn't all that knowledgeable about all the different areas of magic as of yet, but he was fairly certain that there was at least _one_ area dedicated to get unwilling people to talk. And, judging by the impression he had of the headmaster, there was no doubt he'd try and try until he'd found out. There was no way he'd let that happen. He owed Voldemort far too much.

"Karkaroff wants to make you ... talk? Talk about what?"

"About ... who got me at this school," Harry replied, hoping that Juan wouldn't use this opportunity to also question him on that topic.

"Oh. Well, for starters it'd be helpful to know why you even keep your guardian a secret."

Splendid. Just splendid. "I can't tell you that."

"Yeah, and I've tried very hard not to be too curious about it, because I don't think you like excessive questioning. But really ... how can I help you to keep a secret if I don't even know the secret?"

Harry shrugged.

"And if you really can't tell me, the next question would be if I really _should_ help you. I mean, for all I know you could be protecting a serial killer from public notice."

Somehow, Harry thought that replying to that particular statement wouldn't be a good idea no matter what he said. As it turned out when Juan looked up, not saying anything was also wrong.

"You don't, do you?"

That was one of the increasingly numerous moments where he wished he'd have had some exposure to other people during the past three years, because then he'd surely know more about how to lie convincingly. As it was now, the only thing that stroke him as inconspicuous enough was to shake his head no and lock eyes with Juan while doing it.

"And still, you don't want to tell anyone."

Harry shifted uncomfortably under Juan's now almost scrutinizing gaze. "I think I want to go back to talking about what Karkaroff will do to me." He'd been excited and breathless when he came to Juan's desk, ready to start planning and looking for a way out of what could very well grow into a disaster. But now it seemed that the disaster had already arrived. If even a fellow student – his friend – felt the need to question him, chances were that he wouldn't find anyone ready to fully trust him. And thinking about it, he could even understand them. He was some kind of celebrity, vanished for three years and showed up at the only school that was famous for teaching the Dark Arts even though everyone had expected him to go to Hogwarts. That unfortunately didn't make it any less frustrating.

"There's a Truth Potion," Juan said and Harry sighed in relief. He felt more than a little thankful that at least Juan had let the unpleasant subject drop for the time being. "If I were you, I wouldn't drink anything he offers me. But other than that ... I think you don't have a choice but go there and see what happens. I mean, there's no way out of here except the Exiter."  
"And they wouldn't let me use that thing, I know," Harry replied. There was no way Karkaroff would allow his teachers to give him what was basically a free ticket out of the firm grasp the headmaster had on him as long as he was in the school.

Juan absent-mindedly fondled the quill in his hand. "You could just use it and be expelled, I suppose. To be honest, I'm a bit surprised that Karkaroff hasn't threatened you with expulsion. Seems a bit easier than getting Rottweil to ... well, work."

Harry supposed he'd pretty much cut off that way of action when he'd found out that, for some reason, Karkaroff actually wanted to keep him in his school. Apart from it, the secret was bigger than his stay at Durmstrang. He nowhere near wanted to leave, but if the choice was between betrayal and expulsion ... it wasn't even a real choice. Apart from that, Karkaroff'd surely expel him if he told him everything. But he certainly wasn't going to tell that Juan, especially not now. "Dunno," he said with a non-committal shrug.

"But apart from that ... I think they're going to try and feed you Veritaserum – that's the Truth Potion," he added, noticing Harry's confused expression. "And if they don't manage that and you lie convincingly, you don't have to worry too much."

Harry didn't want to believe it'd really be that easy, and he couldn't quite believe it either. There was too much at stake for him just to hope that it would turn out alright (and that the Truth Potion really was the only thing Karkaroff and Rottweil could use against him), but it seemed he had no other choice. Even now, he was really sure that he wouldn't sleep this night. For a moment, he considered using the Exiter without consulting a teacher. Then, the story of that unlucky fifth year - who had done so and ended up inside an erupting volcano - crossed his mind, and he decided against it.

The only thing he could do was writing a letter to Voldemort. His train of thought was disrupted when Juan spoke again. "You're going to tell me someday, won't you?" the Spaniard asked, almost shyly. "You're going to tell me why you're here?"

* * *

Harry was aware that Voldemort wouldn't be able to help him in time before the detention happened, but nonetheless he felt better after sending him that letter about his current situation. Maybe, he'd at least receive some advice – he didn't think he'd have another chance to escape this worrying Truth Potion or whatever other means Rottweil wanted to use to get the truth out of him.

But even though he checked the HOWLOs three times per hour and sat restlessly on his bed, there was no response, not even an acknowledgement that the Dark Lord had received his letter. For a moment, Harry even feared that he'd forgotten to provide the necessary powder, but then again he had emptied the whole bowl the powder was stored in just for this one letter, so that really couldn't be the problem.

Suffice to say, he didn't sleep well that night. He knew that something bad was approaching, something that not only endangered him but something bigger, something that he didn't quite understand yet – and he couldn't do anything but wait for it. It was excruciating, it was terrifying and it was frustrating beyond belief. Time and time again, he vowed to simply _resist_ , but what if that wasn't enough?

His classes on the next day weren't much more successful either. He didn't even dare to show up for Etiquette (not a very risky course of action, as Professor Rottweil normally didn't punish anyone for that), he hadn't done his homework for Potions (which resulted in a great deal of sighs by Professor Dmitrijew) and he was late for Combat Magic because he had thought it necessary to look – again – for a possible reply (which had been a bad idea of monumental proportions, as he'd been Skanar's victim for this lesson because the teacher felt the need to "remind the obviously dominant dirty blood of its place".).

After the lesson, he couldn't even quite remember what exactly Skanar had said about him and his lineage, but as Juan seemed pretty outraged on his behalf, he gathered it ought to have been quite bad. It didn't change the fact that he had no time left.  
And the Exiter was a possibly deadly way out, but it was a way out. And Harry feared he wasn't able to put up with this the hard way.

He didn't even come close to the device because he foolishly felt safe enough to eat with all the others in the Dining Hall. As it turned out, Rottweil had obviously been warned by Karkaroff and wasn't going to take any chances.

The Etiquette teacher was waiting for him at the exit, emerging from the shadows of a dragon's stone statue right as Harry left the hall. He had a slimy smile on his face and a nasty gleam in the pig-like eyes that seemed to scream "I knew everything even _before_ you knew what you were going to do." His real introduction, however, was surprisingly curt: "Ah, our very own dark influence. Follow me for your detention." For Harry, these few words were enough to make him feel as if more than a litre ice-cold water had been poured out above his head. To be honest, even the appearance was enough. No chance of leaving, however dangerous. No alternatives. He could only tread one way, and that way was the one he wanted to tread the least.

"Follow me!" Rottweil bellowed and Harry was so startled that he just began walking - well, that and the fact he had no other options. Why the hell hadn't he just gone through with using the Exiter a bit earlier, when the opportunity was still there?

Surprisingly, walking through a dimly-lit passageway that was winding itself through the castle in such a way that you could never see what was behind the next turn didn't do pleasant things with your mind if you were already on the edge. And Harry did not feel prepared at all for what was about to come. His most substantial clue on what to do consisted of "don't drink anything", and that was just a little bit lacking in his opinion. Maybe that alone would save him, but he doubted it.

It wasn't that he _liked_ the Dark Lord all that much – even after living with him for three years, there was no bond formed; he even felt as if he didn't particularly know the man. But he wouldn't forget that he was the one who had rescued him, back then. The Ministry of Magic had imprisoned him, and the Dark Lord had given him the chance to find a way out. It simply wouldn't do to spill even one of his secrets. And certainly not the biggest one, the one of his return. _Why am I such a slow idiot?_

Harry had, in his opinion, done everything one could conceivably expect of a model student. He'd always delivered his homework, his spell work was ahead of most other student's, his answers in class were adequate most of the time, and his Potions – well, never mind his Potions, that was a stupid subject anyway. Yet, Karkaroff's distrust hadn't really come as a surprise, and still, he'd been woefully unprepared for the talk they'd had after he caught him in the room of the HOWLOs. And, to be honest, not even Juan seemed to fully trust him at the moment. Which was perfectly natural, of course, that was what made it so frustrating. Harry had promised himself he'd get better at lying when he had failed to fool Karkaroff when they first met, but as of now, it seemed he still wasn't very proficient when it came to that particular skill. That didn't bode well for his upcoming meeting, but he'd definitely try his best.

The passageway was now going notably downwards and, not for the first time, Harry asked himself why most of these smaller ways were so twisty and full of elevation change. The thought was forgotten even as his mind produced it – other things had priority, now.

Failure was not an option, he knew that. If Rottweil found out what he was hiding, the healthiest course of action would most likely be to kill himself. No one was supposed to know anything related to the Dark Lord. Amazing, in hindsight, that He had allowed a security leak like him to go to an international school like Durmstrang. Harry almost stopped walking as he fully realized that for the first time. Just for him to have a proper education, Voldemort had given up a few inches of security. If nothing else, he needed to prove his trust right.

"If you want to run away, please just do it," Rottweil encouraged him while slowly negotiating around for a few stairs that looked like they had been washed out by water since the last three hundred years – even though there was no water inside the castle. "It'll make you seem so suspicious that I don't even need to question you on anything."  
Harry's heartbeat went a bit higher. So, his fears had been accurate. This was no detention, this was the second part of the questioning Karkaroff hadn't seen fit to continue for whatever reason.

When they finally arrived at Rottweil's office, Harry immediately knew that they had walked a horrible detour. Most likely to give him more opportunities to try and escape, but even though his mind felt a bit more blurry than usual and his hands were trembling, he was not dumb.

"Home, sweet home," Rottweil smiled and opened his black door. And suddenly, what was about to come became more real, more of an immediate danger. Harry's felt tenser than ever before, but at the same time, the opening of the door also marked the exact point where the build-up was finished and the real deal began. If he'd run away when he had the choice, he wouldn't be here, but that didn't matter right now and he finally needed to stop thinking about it. _This is it. I just need to get this one task right._ Strangely, that thought made him calm down a bit, even though his fingers were still trembling.

Harry had expected the office of an Etiquette teacher to be plastered with magazines about politics, maybe a book or two on how to properly greet an eighty-year old woman in Pakistan. He'd perceived the office of _this_ particular teacher to mainly consist of one or two sofas and a few shelves with trivial literature, because it didn't seem like this guy liked his own subject – or working in general – all that much.

He'd definitely misjudged his Professor. His office wasn't an office, it was more like a landscape of magic. There was a desk standing in the middle of it, yes, but it only consisted of a silvery tabletop that gently floated in the air, occasionally bouncing upwards and then down again. The tabletop in itself seemed not to be particularly stable, because it changed its form all the time, growing lengthier and sharper and then round again. There was no paper lying on it – it'd most likely fallen off because of the abrupt movements – but the obvious impracticability only made it more interesting to Harry. This wasn't something any person in their right mind would buy, so Rottweil had to have created it. And he'd done quite a bit more.

The ceiling of his room seemed to rock gently, very reminiscent of the movements the surface of an ocean would do, the windows had been replaced with something that seemed like wood without the usual opacity wood normally showed, there was one yellow cupboard that had two ever-moving, widely opened eyes where you'd expect to find a lock and a mouth with sharp teeth below these, and there were countless instruments of multiple colours – mostly silver - quietly humming and ticking and mostly likely fulfilling whatever purpose they had.

This room felt and looked more magical than every single facility Harry had yet seen of Durmstrang. And even though most of the things looked to defy most laws of logic, he immediately knew that he eventually had to find out what they really were for. And why the hell not one other part of the castle looked as intriguing as the office of an Etiquette Professor.  
Reality came back with the voice of Professor Rottweil. "It's quite refreshing to see you looking at my office like it's the first time you witness magic, but I think we've got a task to do." He pointed towards two wooden chairs whose wood seemingly also tried to be invisible, but didn't really manage to be – even though Harry hadn't noticed them until Rottweil's finger had directed his gaze towards them. Harry wasn't sure, but he thought there was a smile hidden somewhere in Rottweil's unpleasant looks. A good sign, hopefully.

"Try to ignore my failed attempts at a breakthrough with shape-determining Charms", he said, sighing when the tabletop became long and pointed again – until it bounced back to his previous state. A bit distrusting of the nearly-invisible chair, Harry sat down slowly. It felt like normal wood, even though it clearly wasn't anymore. At least, it didn't collapse under his weight.

"What is that?" he asked despite himself, afraid to touch the shivering silver tabletop. The build-up was finished, but maybe he could delay the worst part nonetheless. After all, the man seemed to be supremely interested in what magic could do, if this room was any indicator. And Harry really didn't want to begin the frightening part of this meeting all too soon.

"That's a needle" Rottweil said, grimacing. "And I'm afraid it wants its original shape back." Harry nodded, slightly dumbstruck, because he now even saw the left-overs of the eye of that needle on the left side of the tabletop. "But you don't have to be afraid, I haven't enchanted it to bite. I've got my cupboard for that." Rottweil smiled, but his bulging lips didn't allow for that to be a pleasant expression. "Sadly, that's not today's topic. As you damn well know."

Harry gulped. So, no distractions available.

"Our esteemed headmaster isn't as innocent and commonly trusted as one would imagine, and therefore needs to be a bit careful with the methods he uses on innocent eleven-year-olds – especially with the methods he uses on you in particular. Luckily, he has his staff and said staff has to follow his orders if they don't want to lose their ... job. Which means that our esteemed headmaster can do as he pleases while always having a fitting culprit at his disposal."

Something about the way Rottweil pronounced the "esteemed headmaster" told Harry that Rottweil's dislike of Karkaroff run quite a bit deeper than his otherwise cheerful tone suggested. Maybe he could use that to his advantage?

"But we should jump to the reason you're here, Mr. Potter: Who's the guy you wanted to write to after you were caught by Karkaroff?" Rottweil asked and sat down on the other chair, opposite Harry. The question came so unexpected after all the explanations that Harry's mind grew blank for a moment. But he caught himself before the temporary halt of his mental wheels could be noticed.

"My guardian." Phew, that had been close, too close for his liking. He needed to up his game right about now.

Rottweil sighed. "With the name of...?" he supplied, looking for eye contact.

"He wants that I don't say his name," Harry answered, this time with more ease and staring back for more believability. So, there wouldn't be Truth Potions or other magical devices that made him spill out the truth? Only a few questions? He looked around, trying to find something which might have that effect, but there was nothing. It seemed he'd get lucky again.

"And I don't care what he wants. A school needs to know whoever carries the responsibility. Just in case something happens, so we at least know an adult we can turn to."

He was only sitting there, Harry thought, doing nothing but staring into his eyes. Was that really what he had feared? Maybe he wouldn't gain any trust during that talk, but there was no way Rottweil'd find out anything about Voldemort.

"I can write him a letter if something like that happens. Sir, I really am not allowed to say more."

Rottweil's gaze had only intensified, even though Harry was pretty sure he'd said nothing noteworthy. "Pretty keen to stay anonymous, your guardian, if I may say so."

Harry thought back to his talk with Juan. "Everyone has his secrets, I suppose."

The professor scratched his head, his eyes never leaving Harry's, always looking for clues, but there were none to discover. "Some more than others, and yours are a bit more precarious than average, don't you agree?"

"It's really nothing spectacular, Sir, I'm just ... not allowed to say," Harry responded, now slightly confused. Why did the teacher keep on asking similar questions? He had to know he needn't expect any answers, and still-

 ** _Clang!_**

Something _clashed._ A big, echoing sound radiated through Harry's mind, reminiscent of a church's bell, but louder, closer and it went through his head with impossible force. Harry hissed in pain, clutched his head that seemed to be about to explode and –

Darkness.

* * *

Everything was blurry, even Rottweil's voice. His brain seemed to still be in the launching process, because he heard some noises, but he wasn't even able to identify singular words. And his head _hurt_. The only thing that was crisp and clear was the pain that raced through Harry's brain, bouncing off his skull and bolting in the other direction. It felt as if several lightning bolts had hit him at once, and as if they'd somehow been trapped inside his head. There was some incomprehensible noise. In front of him was a blurry stick.  
Then, a splash of cold water hit his face. Normally, that would've been an unpleasant experience, but he welcomed it as it seemed to reduce the pain. For the first time since he'd awoken again, he felt that his head was still clutched between his hands.

"Back in our world, Mr. Potter?" Rottweil said in a somewhat tight voice. Harry blinked twice, and the blurry forms gained a bit of substance. "Excellent."

The teacher wasn't in his best shape as well. Even though Harry couldn't remember punching him, there was blood dropping out of his nose.

"What just happened?" he asked, still feeling so groggy that he couldn't even bring himself to be upset about whatever this had been. Rottweil had done something, something Harry was quite sure wasn't allowed to do to an eleven year-old, but as of now, he was still as calm and composed as you could possibly be when your head hurt like someone had lit a little fire inside.

"To me? Or to you?" the teacher drawled. " _I_ encountered what I'd call the mental equivalent of a brick wall. _You_ suddenly defended against my probing in a way no Occlumens could ever hope to replicate. Which is the reason why I'd gladly return your question: _What the hell_ did you just do?!"

"Dunno," Harry muttered. The pain had finally ebbed up slightly and had become a dull thud instead of a howling siren. He felt tired even though he didn't know why.

"Mr. Potter, listen up _right now!"_ Rottweil shouted and Harry looked at him, startled, but still a bit too swamped to feel threatened. "I have a pretty good idea about how the Mind Arts work. _They don't work in a physical way_. Of course, you can block the _spell_ Legilimens through physical means, but the e _ffects_ are neverphysical. This isn't a case of some natural defences against Legilimency, which means, Mr. Potter, that your peculiar inner wall has to have been built by some outside force. Are you able to follow?"

He wasn't really, but he didn't think that a negative answer would be accepted right now. "Yes."

Rottweil looked as if he wanted to continue his rant, then he dropped his arms and narrowed his eyes. "The hell you are. But let me phrase my problem a bit more comprehensively: There are no walls within the mind. I just ran into one. Who. Has. Done. This?"

"What do you mean by 'mind'?" Harry asked.

Rottweil did a double-take at that. "If I really have to explain the concept behind the word 'mind' to you, I'm almost willing to believe the brick wall I encountered was everything I could conceivably expect to find."

Harry noticed that the Etiquette teacher was surprisingly eloquent outside the classroom. And a bit more vicious than normal. Whatever had happened, it seemed to have caught the man by as much surprise as him.  
Finally, Harry felt some of his usual quick-mindedness return to him, and he was able to put together the hints he'd just been given. Then, the coin dropped.  
"You were in my mind!" he shouted accusingly as shock raced through him. That meant that-

"Almost. I _tried_ to get into your mind. When looking for information about your guardian, I encountered your mind's way to say 'Fuck You'." Rottweil rubbed his temples, sighing.

And Harry was even more relieved as he heard that. "So ... no one's going to be able to do what you just tried?" At least, Voldemort's secret was safe with him. For the first time, he noticed that he was still sitting on the nigh-invisible chair, even though he was pretty sure that he had been passed out for a few seconds.

The Professor frowned as he heard that. "I suppose not. Try to look a little less pleased about that, because that's the goddamn opposite of helpful. Or trustworthy, for that matter."

Harry fought to keep the smile off his face, but, knowing that he'd somehow accidentally avoided accidentally betraying Voldemort, that was a hard thing to do.

"It's also completely unwarranted," Rottweil added, which caused Harry to frown. "If Karkaroff wants to kick you out, this particular oddity is one hell of a solid reason – for various reasons, most prominently the fact that I'm pretty sure it'll also prevent Veritaserum from working."

There was a "but" upcoming there, a "but" so obvious that even Harry with his limited knowledge of human interaction – although he had gotten far better at it in the past month – could see it coming from miles. And still, he felt a bit unsettled. He'd been mainly glad to have avoided exposing Voldemort, but to be expelled wasn't a pleasant thought either. Even though the castle lacked the magic this office radiated, even though it was dark and narrow, he rather liked it here. And he wanted to know more about magic. One day, his room was supposed to look like this office, but that was only possible if he was allowed to stay.

" _But_ I have no intention of telling our esteemed headmaster the whole story. I know that someone powerful has to be behind the riddle of your appearance at this school, and that's quite enough for me personally."

This "but" had been coming, true, however, he certainly hadn't expected it to be as radical. If something as vague as that was enough for Rottweil, why had he even bothered to try and find out more? And, apart from that, hadn't he just said that he had to do Karkaroff's dirty work for him? Surely, Karkaroff wouldn't simply allow him to get away with lying, would he? That said, he wasn't going to complain – if Rottweil was being truthful. "I'll try to think off a cover for that – maybe it'd be best if we met again tomorrow?"

"A cover?" Harry said weakly. Just a few moments ago, this man had tried to rob him off his thoughts, and now he wanted to cover for him? Now, that was decidedly strange, and suddenly, he wasn't quite sure if he shouldn't at least question this sudden mood switch a bit.

Gilwar Rottweil looked him into the eye, and he seemed to have caught on to his concerns. "There is not much you'd need to know about me, Mr. Potter. But if there's any way – no matter how difficult the means – to mess up the plans of our esteemed headmaster, I'm going to pursue it. Relentlessly. And I'm pretty sure that I can mess up quite a lot by not telling him that your so-called "guardian" is Lord Voldemort."

It should have hit like cannon's fire. He should have visibly flinched, grown ashen, but that wasn't the case. He should have lost the ability to move, everything including his thoughts frozen, but that didn't happen. Instead, something inside Harry just _clicked._ Suddenly, he knew what to do, much like with Karkaroff yesterday. "You-Know-Who has been dead for years," he pointed out with furrowed eyebrows, completely calm without any understanding of how he'd just gained the ability to feign such composure. He even managed to give his voice a slightly condescending undertone.

Rottweil's eyebrows rose slightly. "I don't know any other British wizard that'd fit the description you've given to Karkaroff and that'd be able to pull off something like _warding someone else's mind_."

Subconsciously, Harry smirked. "I think I already said that he likes to be anonymous."

The eyebrows climbed even higher. "Meet me in my office tomorrow. We'll talk about this – oh, and Mr. Potter?" Harry, who had already begun to stand up, sunk back into his chair. It was fairly comfortable, more so than you'd expect from bare wood, but there surely were one or two cushioning charms on it. "I've got yet another strange request." The teacher paused for a moment, thinking about a good way to phrase his point. "There's a spell I want you to try out. Nothing all too complicated, mind you, just a spell that's mainly used for ... medical purposes. It's called _Monstraros_."

The table shivered and seemed to deflate for a moment, growing pointed and then jumping back to his previous form. Harry didn't notice the unusual heavy shape change.

"Why?"

"Because I say so - and I'm going to tell Karkaroff you're really the evil lovechild of Lord Voldemort and Gellert Grindelwald if you don't do it."

For a moment, Harry could do nothing but gape at him, then he shrugged it off. That guy was a seriously flippant person – and weird as well – but he hadn't any choice but to deal with it. Rottweil showed him the wand movements and told him to get his wand out.  
"Use it on the cupboard." Harry only saw it on the periphery, because he was struggling to fiddle his wand out of his pockets, but he could've sworn that the yellow cupboard's eyes had just widened drastically. He slowly walked towards the cupboard whose pupils were rotating furiously, seemingly searching for a way out. Bewildered, he turned back to Rottweil, who had stood up as well and now wore a very strange smile on his face. "Now, just be done with it," he urged.

 _"Monstraros_!" Harry said, at first without any enthusiasm, but then, something inside him _clicked_ again. He suddenly knew this was no ordinary spell. He suddenly knew it needed more than just a little wand-waving and the proper pronounciation. He suddenly knew how this spell worked, and why he didn't need to know his exact results to perform it. This spell needed just a bit more _fire._

The results were shocking. A large part of wood was ripped out of one of the cupboard's doors – and then there was blood splashing out of what almost looked like an open wound. An unearthly sound thundered through the room, almost as if the cupboard tried to scream but couldn't. Harry stared at it, and his insides turned to ice. What had he just done? And, side question: What kind of cupboard w _as that_?! It was still shivering, causing the floor to vibrate slightly.

"Quite a show, Mr. Potter," Rottweil said drily, causing Harry to let go off the breath he hadn't known he still hold. His vision was blurry again even though there weren't any tears in his eyes. "Tomorrow at six p. m. in my office." And he practically shoved Harry towards the door. Harry just let him do it, unable to take his eyes off the blood that was still leaking out of the cupboards whose eyes were now squinting and filled with agony.  
Having shut the door, Rottweil went back towards the cupboard, moving excruciatingly slow. A large, almost feral smile spread all over his bald face. He took another step towards the cupboard. But the cupboard suddenly began to lose its wooden appearance and skin appeared beneath the illusion. Two legs appeared and slowly, the cupboard turned into something that didn't have anything to do with an ordinary cupboard, a human.

"I really don't want to assume anything here," Rottweil drawled, his eyes sparkling with dark euphoria. "But I'd bet that this _really **hurt**_." And the smile grew even more disturbing.

The man lying on the floor reached for something inside the pockets of his cloak. The wound that had formerly just been carved inside a piece of wood now disfigured his left upper leg, and it was a deep wound. One could even see a fraction of the bone beneath it.

" _Crucio!"_ Igor Karkaroff screamed furiously, neither caring for the open wound nor for the dark red blood dropping out of it.

Rottweil only just avoided the curse and laughed in an almost maniacal way. "Better be careful, Igor. After all, you're now a highly respected law-abiding citizen. I thought you wanted to stay one?"

Karkaroff gasped; the pain in his thigh obviously now became too big to ignore. Almost apologetically, Rottweil flicked his wand and the gaping wound stopped bleeding. Durmstrang's headmaster sighed in relief as the pain vanished, but didn't say anything yet.

"Won't I get so much as a thank-you?" the Etiquette teacher quipped, but Karkaroff didn't seem to be in the mood for any jokes.

"How – are you not dead?" he managed between gritted teeth, which caused Rottweil to smile condescendingly.

"Because only idiots try to include adverbs in vows. I didn't think that the boy would be able to do that spell, so, technically, I didn't _seriously attempt to harm you using either myself or someone or something else as a weapon._ Astonishing, to be honest, that the boy managed it. And such _perfection..._ "

Karkaroff looked at the still-open wound in his upper leg that didn't look any healthier now that it had stopped to hurt and bleed. "You're an asshole," he said, with as much dignity and contempt as he could muster. Then, almost as an afterthought: "And your attempts to evoke trust in the boy were absolutely pathetic."

Rottweil raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, Igor, don't you assume this wasn't intentional. Both of us know just how much I enjoy disobeying every order you try force on me."

* * *

 **The next chapter will be posted on 02/25/2017. We'll see how that works out. I'll afterwards try to post twice a week, maybe thrice. But don't take this for granted, you never now when lazyness will hit you.**


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